words
There is a serene peace in letting my fingers swipe across the keyboard, punching letters one at a time until they come together, forming trails of words, making my breath heavy. The keyboard taps culminate in a story, rich enough to make my blood rush, enough to reveal myself; they incite sound in another.
To say that I love writing would be a rather trivial statement ‒ it would suggest that writing means to me what sports or food means to someone else. Writing is raw; to hide anything is to hinder the process. You write, offering the most unadulterated form of yourself, hoping that someone, somewhere, without a face or a name, will grasp at your tethers. Little remains between the reader and writer besides the inherent hope that rests in this invisible transaction. It’s all quite mad, really. But writing doesn’t always have a happy ending. It’s messy as hell, but so am I. Alas, there is little that compares to watching your voice come alive in the heart of a stranger.
And so, I write.
"Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Devour old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversations, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (and theft) will be authentic. Authenticity is invaluable; originality is non-existent. And don't bother concealing your thievery - celebrate it if you feel like it. In any case, always remember what Jean-Luc Godard said: "It's not where you take things from - it's where you take them to."
-Jim Jarmusch
With Jarmusch's words in mind, head over to my blog where you can steal any and everything that makes your veins pulse just a little bit stronger.
