Eloquent

I have a desire to write better.

I’m self aware to the extent that I know—or believe I know—that my writing is simplistic. My sentences are short and direct. There isn’t much flourish.

This can be handy when describing a technical topic in a blog post but not very handy when describing a technical topic in what should be a 500 page book. It’s also not very handy when wanting to evoke deep emotions and painting a descriptive scene that immerses someone into the story.

I imagine people as born storytellers but, in reality, I know that it comes from exposure to good work—just like anything else. It comes from study. It comes from practice. I need to learn more. I need to read more. I need to write more.

Maybe a run-on sentence every now and then wouldn’t hurt. Every sentence doesn’t need to be under twelve words long. Every blog post doesn’t need to be broken down into bullet points to make it easier for a reader to scan, dotted with headlines to make it easier for a reader to skim. Maybe I could stop using first person so much. It feels almost narcissistic in how much I use the word I. On a technical topic, I didn’t want to impose. “You should do this. You need to do that.” No, I did this. Take from my retelling on a technical topic what you want. Your mileage may vary. There are no warranties or refunds or exchanges. Carry on with my experiences at your own risk.

But on any other topic? How do I describe what feels indescribable, ineffable. Others paint a picture and I’m throwing paint on a canvas, frustrated that the splatters haven’t magically dripped and oozed into some masterpiece of pointillism as if that’s how it’s supposed to work.

From the Drafts

This was another post from the drafts—this time from January of 2020. Can’t say I’ve done much in those four years since writing this to work on my writing. Every now and then I manage a morsel of wordplay that tickles my brain but creating a larger narrative that turns multiple morsels into an entire meal has still escaped me.

[“Escaped me.” These four years haven’t been like The Fugitive where creative writing leaps off a sewer pipe to evade captivity. No, it’s more like it’s been knocking on my door while I lay in bed with the sheets over my head yelling that nobody is home.]

But perhaps with a renewed interest in stretching my creative muscles, better writing will see the light of day.