Why do I write?

Why do I write?

I’m not always sure. I’m pretty sure it has something to do with wanting to share a feeling, or a moment. Maybe an idea. Sometimes I have a vision, and it’s so beautiful to me, I want to share it with you.

But it’s not about sharing words.

Does that sound strange? Writing is made of words, but the words aren’t the point. They’re the tools.

I don’t think the writers I know write simply for the sake of writing. We do love language. We love the rhythm of a good sentence. But even then, the words are supposed to gather themselves into something more, something greater than the sum of their parts.

They must hold a feeling long enough for someone else to feel it too.

Sometimes, instead of opening a door, writing can bury meaning instead of sharing it. Sometimes I look back on something I wrote, and wonder what heck I was trying to say. Hopefully, not too often!

Here’s the opposite of clear communication, just for fun. Each of these overstuffed sentences is really a familiar saying in disguise. See if you can figure them out.

1.   A mass of concentrated earthly material perennially rotating on its axis will not accumulate an accretion of bryophytic vegetation.

2.            A superabundance of talent skilled in the preparation of gastronomic concoctions will impair the quality of a certain potable solution made by immersing a gallinaceous bird in evullient Adam’s ale.

3.            Individuals who perforce are constrained to be domiciled in vitreous structures of patent frangibility should on no account employ petrous formations as projectiles.

4.            That prudent avis which matutinally deserts the coziness of its abode will ensnare a vermiculite creature.

5.            Everything that coruscates with effulgence is not ipso facto aurous.

6.            Do not dissipate your competence by hebetudinous prodigality lest you subsequently lament an exiguous inadequacy.

7.            An addlepated beetlehead and his specie divaricate with startling prematurity.

8.            It can be no other than a maleficent horizontally propelled current of gaseous matter whose protentous advent is not the harbinger of a modicum of beneficence.

9.            One should hyperesthetically exercise macrography upon that situs which will eventually tenant if one propels oneself into the troposphere.

10. Aberration is the hallmark of Homo Sapiens while longanimous placability and condonation are the indicia of supramundane omniscience.