By James L Hill (aka J. L. Hill)
I have said before that I like writing. I like the feeling I get from scribbling words on paper. But there is another reason to keep a pen and paper close by; I do all my preliminary work on paper. I write the outlines and characterizations by hand, it’s quicker.
There are also parts or chapters that I hand-write. I can get my pure imagination out quicker. I feel closer to the story and the people when I manually write it down. It becomes a personal correspondence between me and my reader, a journal of events that is meant to be savored. I pour my heart and soul out. The ink becomes my blood, the words the essence of consciousness, freely flowing across the page in squiggles and symbols. It doesn’t matter if the words are spelled correctly or even legibly formed. They transform pictures and sounds from the ethereal to the here and now. Turning vague misty visions into concrete reality. Emotions to flesh.
I save the computer and its keyboard for the impersonal business of producing copy. The tapping of keys is like playing music, the rhythm of writing is at its best. I am lost to the thoughts of words. I am in the typing groove, fingers magically dancing from letter to letter. Occasionally retracing and correcting what the computer balks at with harsh red underlines. This is mostly transcribing, but occasionally, it is auto-writing. When I know what to say so well, my fingers do the talking. The story is so well known I barely need to see what is inputted. The computer takes it in as fast as I can go no emotional blockades to overcome.
The movie plays uninterrupted from my head through my fingers and onto the screen, breaking momentarily for popcorn and beer. It is efficient, effortless, and mechanical. No need to think, that has all been done. It is motion and rhythm made into words.
It is three a.m. pacing the floor, a worried parent awaiting a defiant child. To and fro, up and down, back and forth the words are recorded in a jumble of mixed feelings and thoughts. The tiny micro recorder weights next to nothing, but it hold a ton. It sucks in the dreams and fears, the hopes and misgivings that ramble from a twisted and tormented mind. Yes, record the instance, capture the moment, and trap the thought in the little black box. Create sense out of chaos, turn nonsense into order. The recorder does not edit. The recorder does not refine. The recorder allows the reality to be etched in memorial, to be retrieved and rediscovered long after. The recorder is perfection. It creates an exact replica of time.
It is a time not for now. It is a future that can only be viewed by looking back with the clarity of retrospection. The words resonate and finally hold meaning. Truths not known when uttered are undeniable in this future world. The recorder is a technological crystal ball, revealing past, present, and futures. It is powerful magic at three a.m.
Many different strokes fill the writer’s canvas as he plies his craft. Some are powerful and broad leaving bold statements. Some are fine and sharp creating detail and definition. There are splotches and blotches that add background. All to create what the writer calls his masterpiece. His story.
I have said before that I like writing. I like the feeling I get from scribbling words on paper. But there is another reason to keep a pen and paper close by; I do all my preliminary work on paper. I write the outlines and characterizations by hand, it’s quicker.
There are also parts or chapters that I hand-write. I can get my pure imagination out quicker. I feel closer to the story and the people when I manually write it down. It becomes a personal correspondence between me and my reader, a journal of events that is meant to be savored. I pour my heart and soul out. The ink becomes my blood, the words the essence of consciousness, freely flowing across the page in squiggles and symbols. It doesn’t matter if the words are spelled correctly or even legibly formed. They transform pictures and sounds from the ethereal to the here and now. Turning vague misty visions into concrete reality. Emotions to flesh.
I save the computer and its keyboard for the impersonal business of producing copy. The tapping of keys is like playing music, the rhythm of writing is at its best. I am lost to the thoughts of words. I am in the typing groove, fingers magically dancing from letter to letter. Occasionally retracing and correcting what the computer balks at with harsh red underlines. This is mostly transcribing, but occasionally, it is auto-writing. When I know what to say so well, my fingers do the talking. The story is so well known I barely need to see what is inputted. The computer takes it in as fast as I can go no emotional blockades to overcome.
The movie plays uninterrupted from my head through my fingers and onto the screen, breaking momentarily for popcorn and beer. It is efficient, effortless, and mechanical. No need to think, that has all been done. It is motion and rhythm made into words.
It is three a.m. pacing the floor, a worried parent awaiting a defiant child. To and fro, up and down, back and forth the words are recorded in a jumble of mixed feelings and thoughts. The tiny micro recorder weights next to nothing, but it hold a ton. It sucks in the dreams and fears, the hopes and misgivings that ramble from a twisted and tormented mind. Yes, record the instance, capture the moment, and trap the thought in the little black box. Create sense out of chaos, turn nonsense into order. The recorder does not edit. The recorder does not refine. The recorder allows the reality to be etched in memorial, to be retrieved and rediscovered long after. The recorder is perfection. It creates an exact replica of time.
It is a time not for now. It is a future that can only be viewed by looking back with the clarity of retrospection. The words resonate and finally hold meaning. Truths not known when uttered are undeniable in this future world. The recorder is a technological crystal ball, revealing past, present, and futures. It is powerful magic at three a.m.
Many different strokes fill the writer’s canvas as he plies his craft. Some are powerful and broad leaving bold statements. Some are fine and sharp creating detail and definition. There are splotches and blotches that add background. All to create what the writer calls his masterpiece. His story.
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