the way i think

Over the weekend, a friend from high school whom I will call Laurie took it upon herself to help me edit and transcribe the remaining parts of my novel. Naturally, I thought she was mad to take on such a task, but then again what am I going to do about it on my own?

Laurie is a friend of Eve's, and she works at a museum and is an avid reader. I trust her editorial judgement because she has no intention of rewriting my novel for me-- rather, she truly wants to help me condense it into something accessible to the masses.

So far her notes on the novel make sense. She asked me if she could be "brutal" and "ruthless" and I allowed as much. Her brutality, however, is the kind I can accept: she is only concerned with readability and understanding, not semantics or the process of writing. In the past, I've had dear friends read my text and they all provided valuable advice and commentary, but Laurie is determined to help me shape it thematically. She recognizes the themes thanks to her knowledge of me, my life, and the way I think.

And what is "the way I think", by the way? I pondered that last night when Eve came by my apartment. She needed to use my shower because her tub was backed up. She made it worth my while by helping wash a few dishes, providing me with gas money for my car, and making me a sandwich. Then, we watched X Files on DVD and drank Newcastle, as is our tradition.

After watching two stellar episodes from the first season, the subject of conversation drifted into magic and science. I told her that I seem to have an innate dysfunction for believing in the supernatural or paranormal. My fascination for such things stems not from belief but from curiosity-- I am totally beguiled by all unexplained, irrational phenomenon.

I postulated to her that the reason I engage in creative arts is because those outlets-- writing, music, art --are the closest I will ever come to "casting spells" or invoking magic. When it comes to those outlets, I find myself reaching in and digging from inside of myself, from some unknown source within my psyche.

When I draw or paint, I rarely have it mapped out or planned ahead. It comes automatically, and I do not question its origin. I simply go with the flow. The same with my music, which owes more to chance and accidental juxtaposition than anything composed traditonally.

Writing is another activity where I seem to shut off my rational mind and draw water from a subconscious well.

But for the most part, the "way I think" is in a rational, objective mode. If it were not for arts, I might be socially conservative, ideologically right-wing, and emotionally simple. Only when I allow my mind to run free, without restriction, do I ever come up with anything worth reading or hearing or watching. The minute I begin to impose order upon my carefully-crafted chaos, I get bored. So I need help with that aspect.

Mind you, if it were someone else's work, I'd be able to edit and analyze objectively. I am an exception to myself, in other words. I am good at helping others achieve their creative goals but cannot transfer that same enthusiasm to my own works. This is why I have fun in the bands I'm in-- I am not required to be "creative" in the classical sense; I am only required to do my part and to compensate for anything lacking.

Rigbht now I am starting to read a book called The Professor And The Madman by Simon Winchester. It is about the true story of the making of the first Oxford English Dictionary, and the extraordinary circumstances from which it originated.

That's all for now. Maybe there will be more from me later.