A Furious First

So now it’s established. Fury is fodder to the writer’s mind. A swarm of words riveting the head and zillions of flying sparks causes a rise in temperatures and an occasional outburst of words. But some, like Nietzsche, would say that art is a mere vent to the oppressed soul and reduce my writing to a lamb’s final quivers. But then who isn’t oppressed these days.

That aside, another reason for me to start writing has simply been to develop a more fluid writing language and the hope that this fluidity lends its texture to my thoughts. For too long, I have been an overly cautious writer, carefully inspecting, internally deliberating, picking, choosing, and rationalizing before typing. But what good is a writer who cannot listen to the whimsies of his soul, who feels with his head and writes, should I say ... sensibly.

I need to learn to use and abuse the freedoms words gift us, make some mistakes and tear all sensibility apart. This structure, or lack of, of writing is going to take some getting used to. I have worn the manager’s hat for ages, measuring and balancing. Now, the chef’s hat beckons me, instructing my intuition to take over and guide me, a little bit of salt, some sweetness perhaps, something sharp and of course a hint of acid.

I think a blog is a nice way to start. A public diary of sorts. Less personal, and slightly more pretentious. Or it’s just that I am simply not used to seeing myself torn into bits and bytes, quite literally.