I have been reading Ursula K Le Guin's Voices, nominally a teenager's book but, like all Le Guin's work, worthwhile for all ages of readers to read.
It could be titled 'Words', because that is what, in my mind, it is about. The power of words and the weight of them are the story. The voiced word is the hero of the story as the written word seems to be the victim. In an interview in the back of my version of the novel, Le Guin talks about the power of poetry and fiction:
Poetry and fiction use words in somewhat different ways, but they are both attempting to say various things that probably cannot be said at all. .... People certainly can learn - or relearn - "their truth" from poetry or story, but the meaning will always be the truth they seek....
After reading this I found my thoughts (which often have a life of their own) drifting to writing in a blog, and wondering what Le Guin would have to say about that form of writing. Like poetry and fiction, I believe, blogging is an attempt to say things that really cannot be said. It is an attempt to connect across and through a cacophony of other voices but at the same time it is often reaching out and finding a connection, another voice, a fragile link.
Do you wonder what other bloggers think about what you write and what they make of the stories you tell and the ideas you present? When you write, to whom are you writing? for a while I was part of a group called Blog Rhet that considered and wrote about some of these things. We came to no conclusions but the discussion was fun. I believe, as well, that bloggers need to read what other bloggers write. I know of some bloggers who have shut down because of time constraints, not writing time but reading time.
I like to think about the words I send out as tiny fireflies, pumping their wings and briefly glowing against a star-filled sky. Are they there if no one witnesses their flight?
I don't really write for connections, though, or for readers. I write to confirm to myself who I am. Maybe my grand daughter will read these words some day and learn something about me or something about herself. I don't know if she will even be interested. But still the little words pulse and briefly fly.
My poinsettias are finally dying. Thank goodness. And the paper-white I got for Christmas has just put out another bloom. The house was filled with flowers last week in honour of our wedding anniversary. Even the Christmas cactus has obliged with a good show of pink February bloom, contrary plant that it is. And my neighbour has given me yet another papyrus plant, even though I have killed the last two. Last night the YD's dog got some spaghetti sauce and a meat ball with her supper and was thrilled. Tonight she got mostly dog food and I suspect she thinks she is hard done by as she is ignoring her dish. I washed all the cleaning cloths this afternoon and folded them neatly back into their rack. But there's a load of wet stuff still to go into the drier and here I am, letting the static in my mind drain on to the page.
Poor little fireflies.