six elaborates…

six elaborates…

If you really want to know what I spend my time doing, I believe it’s probably something like this - sitting down, outwardly still but inwardly nervous, my fingers poised over the home keys, eyes worryingly scanning blank space, and yes, nothing happening.

It’s ironic, perhaps, and fitting, most definitely, that I write now about being unable to write.

While I believe that some things do come easily and naturally, it’s been my experience that my writing is a painful and labor-intensive process. The ideas sit and incubate in my head, gathering strength (and courage - which is not the absence of fear) before emerging slowly, egg tooth poking out, cautious and reserved. The end result of it all is questionable. But it’s worth it.

* * * * * *

I write knowing that there is an audience. I don’t believe it’s possible to write without one; words are left on paper for a purpose, or else they’d remain ethereal mist-like thoughts in our heads. So yes, these words are for you. So are the pictures I try to describe, and the more fleeting emotions and moments that slip through the nets - and that’s frustrating.

I write about sex because initially, it’s such a powerful series of physiological changes. A slightly quicker breath drawn between slightly parted lips. Hands curling unconsciously. Heart rate increasing. Salivating at the sound of a bell. Etc. If I can do all of these things using words alone - well… that’s quite a feat. We haven’t quite invented teleportation, but the almost quantum immediacy of the effect of the written word should be studied.

But the lasting impression, of course, is what we imagine in our minds about sex. And that’s sometimes a bad thing - sometimes it’s a good thing. I’ve tried to evoke only the latter. I know I haven’t always succeeded. Let’s put away that research grant.