Free-style writing as opposed to
organized writing. The latter is all about deciding on what to write about,
setting your teeth, and sticking to structure with a pretension of or, even
better, compliance to logic. Free-style writing can be aimless and as full of
gyrations as one likes. Limitations of any sort are not acknowledged, and the writer
is free to break into verse, use phrases that muddle up Microsoft Word (which
begs you to consider revising), and license is freely gained to gallop away
with your thoughts.
But if, IF you wish for others to
understand at least what you’re hammering at, a semblance of grammar and syntax
may be followed, so that the liberties taken are appreciated as a creative mind’s
departures from convention, instead of stark raving lunacy.
Do you have freedom of speech? So
you do!
Can you use profanity? Sure do.
Do it until you feel like you’ve done yourself subterfuge and feel like getting
back to good old writing.
Should you follow a particular
style? Not yet. The motive of free-style writing is to help you develop a style
in time, but don’t try to draw lines yet, as it defeats the purpose of
freewheeling thinking.
What do you expect to see? Will
you see patterns within yourself that were hitherto unknown to you, or will you
find that you know yourself pretty well? You will find out surprising things
about yourself, perhaps.
Writing can be a great way of
self-discovery.
I have notes and epistles and
verse here and there, sticking out of books or among my yearbooks or in my many
folders. Being a content developer myself, I am quick to see if something is
well put, and some emotions and ideas akin to my own leap out at me in the most
unlikely places.
Like all self-congratulatory
people, I am in awe of myself and my capacity of expression. I seethe in helpless
rage when I find I’ve not expressed myself keenly or profoundly enough.
Fine-tune as I might, the words that I paint with my pen are not as fragrant
and vivid as the pictures that spring into life in my mind’s eye.
This is practice for self-expression
-- a poor stab at the many, many things I feel, and clamor to acknowledge. They
are changeful, iridescent, half-baked ideas, some waiting to be developed, some
stewing under wraps waiting for acrostic bloom, and some given more than their
due.
I find it hard to forgive this
peccancy, and can hardly wait until I can do better. Ought not this eagerness
to count for something?
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