I'm getting really good at filling this blog with words from other people. Something like half of my posts are words I've found elsewhere -- lyrics of the most beautiful songs, words from my treasured wise, verses of my favorite scriptures. I feel like that's sort of negative. What is the point of a blog if it's not all out of your own head?
But isn't that always how I've worked? I'm not a writer, I'm an editor. I'm not a creator, I'm a perfecter. I'm not a producer, I'm a collector.
And, of course, the only thing I can think to do next is offer words of someone else's wisdom. Have I rendered inert my ability to express completely independent sentences? Has a life of schooling and research papers led me to believe that my collection and assessment of the words of others is more powerful than the development of words of my own?
Why am I upset about this? Why am I upset about this today? It's beautiful outside -- the second perfect day we've had all summer, the first being only yesterday. My first thought is that I should be outside, reading. Once again, absorbing the words of others. So instead I think I'll write something. And yet, here I sit, unable to write anything other than that I've nothing to write about.
Have I ever been one to lack words? No. I'm a reactor, a responder. I look at what's there and I say what I think. Is this bad? It hasn't ever been bad before. Why is it bad today? Couldn't tell you. But if you told me what you thought, I'd certainly have a response.
But isn't that always how I've worked? I'm not a writer, I'm an editor. I'm not a creator, I'm a perfecter. I'm not a producer, I'm a collector.
And, of course, the only thing I can think to do next is offer words of someone else's wisdom. Have I rendered inert my ability to express completely independent sentences? Has a life of schooling and research papers led me to believe that my collection and assessment of the words of others is more powerful than the development of words of my own?
Why am I upset about this? Why am I upset about this today? It's beautiful outside -- the second perfect day we've had all summer, the first being only yesterday. My first thought is that I should be outside, reading. Once again, absorbing the words of others. So instead I think I'll write something. And yet, here I sit, unable to write anything other than that I've nothing to write about.
Have I ever been one to lack words? No. I'm a reactor, a responder. I look at what's there and I say what I think. Is this bad? It hasn't ever been bad before. Why is it bad today? Couldn't tell you. But if you told me what you thought, I'd certainly have a response.