Only yesterday, while struggling to express an impression I had of William Faulkner’s work to my favorite oldest brother, I remarked in some frustration that “I should just blog about it, because I won’t know what I think until I do.”
This morning, courtesy of MR, I found an article about just that.
I wish I blogged more often, because it is always such a relief to me to be able to say fully what I mean; something I rarely manage in person. In conversation, I find myself grasping for the correct words. I say “blanket” when “duvet” would better suit my purposes. Or I mis-speak, and use the wrong word in such a comical manner, that I feel like Amy from “Little Women,” showing off vocabulary words I haven’t properly learned. I don’t know w hen to stop talking. I ramble. I start saying something, and realize its irrelevance part way through, when it has already become too late to turn back. Sometimes, half way through saying something, I see by someone’s expression that I am boring them to tears. In short, I often feel very stupid.
Perhaps I am not really as awkward when I talk as I feel myself to be, or (very probably) I am only awkward under certain circumstanes. (I find I am very elloquent in the car.) But I am probably at my best when I write. Talking, I make mistakes. I am a mere mortal. Writing, even when I have to delete and re-write whole paragraphs, and even when the idea I am attempting to convey is flawed, I come much closer to expressing it properly.
As Mr. Krystal (of the above-linked article) says, “…There seems to be a rhythm to writing that catches notes that ordinarily stay out of earshot. At some point between formulating a thought and writing it down falls a nanosecond when the thought becomes a sentence that would, in all likelihood, have a different shape if we were to speak it.”