Of Urgencies and Buzzes, of Raw Prints and Breadcrumbs

Writing is a rush.

Get inside, somehow, but get inside. Here it is: here is the whole of it. Inside words there is, of course, another world to fall through. It’s a world of otherness, a liminal space, possible connections and improbable lives. In it we’re in a dream. Writing is a rush. It’s a buzz. We surface and we feel the adrenaline fizz through the system like a shock of near collision when driving. Here it is. Rush is, from research:

Oxford Dictionaries:

verb: move with urgent haste.

noun: a sudden quick movement towards something, typically by a number of people; (rushes) the first prints made of a film after a period of shooting.

Encarta Dictionary, via Word, has this:

verb: move fast; hurry somebody or something along; take somebody or something urgently; do something hastily; go recklessly; flow fast; capture enemy quickly.

noun: great hurry; sudden fast movement; busy time; great demand; sudden attack; sudden flow; sudden feeling; sudden pleasurable sensation.

plural noun: unedited prints of film scenes.

Writing is a rush of research, a buzz of the clack, of falling into and through the characters, the scene, the place and the space. If I leave it, will I find my way back there again? Do I need to leave a trail of breadcrumbs to find my way back in? How do you find the exact same space you found before without it?

Get inside. Move with urgent haste, have a sudden movement towards the possibility of something, something, in there. A number of people will move there too. Write them to find out; move with them; be part of the crowd, the throng, the space and the breath of it all. Draft it out, first prints, first press, first shooting, pencilled in, crayoned in, rough at the edges, dirty with the love of it all.

Get inside. Move along with the pace and the speed and the smell and the light and the darkness of it all; move it along because, even in the pauses, the pauses are part of it; hurry along with it all; get caught up. It’s a dream. It’s a wave. Take everyone and everything along for the ride. Go recklessly, not dangerously or without thought, go recklessly without fear of it all. Flow fast and flow slow and flow wherever it takes you. Capture the enemy of fear, quickly and smartly, and take it along with you too. Write and edit and think and pause and sink and swim and flow and write few words and write many words and keep inside, keep inside.

Get inside. Have a great hurry about you, a suddenness, a busyness, even all of this in the stillness of fingers; be in demand — let the words need you. Execute great and sudden attack: find the exact right word and lay it down, or turn it over and over and play it till it squirms. Know the sudden flow, the sudden burst, the emotion and the exaltation and the energy and the chemical spill in the veins.

Let it seep. Let it flood. Let it be known to the self that words have been written, that things have been said, that space has been entered: an otherness, a liminal place, where there are possible connections and improbable lives. Feel the adrenaline that passes. See the unedited prints of the scenes, edited maybe, a little, edited but unedited, undiluted, fizzing.

Writing is a rush, is to rush, is the rushes.

(Already, I know I need something more wind-proof than a trail of breadcrumbs though . . .)

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