On writing

Rustler of trees

Labels and titles are rather unimportant. “Artist” implies a special and untetherable link to the artifact. Should a maker of cars be called carist? The artifact is the thing – we only bring it out of the structure. Summoner, shaman or magician. Condenserist? Cavic light-blocker? Rustler of trees serving fruits of emotions. In the end I am no one and the artifacts I made are something else.

Meaning, message, rules of storytelling – tools to be used or discarded at will. One story built by logic, narrative structure and character development, an electrical grid with source, relays, switches controlling a single engine. Another is a mood, a feeling, a river shifting from rapids to falls to meandering and ground water tunnels.

The questioning of everything is built into the urge of expression. Instead of competing with the masters I have found my own niche. Not trying, comparing, wishing, but just going where I have to go. Admiring, learning, repurposing, but never playing the same game, changing the rules to fit me, challenging myself as I wish, pushing-relaxing with the tide of my energy.

Humming to myself, the vibrations in my chest is comfort and joy, a pleasant feeling, as the flow kicks in and I leave logic for intuition. I’m doing this for me, for the experience, for the vibrations I make, for the thrill, for the climax, for the satisfying end, be it artifact or a surge of electrochemical lightning caused by putting words in a novel and exiting order.