Blade Against Words

Writers are so stange and fiercely protective over their work!

After we  have first spit   "it"  out, letting it move through the birth canal of our minds - after holding the words there from conception to the fetus form - we then lay the flesh upon the bones, shaping, molding, re-shaping, strengthening certain areas of muscles and tissure, adding a feature, creating the  "face" of    "it"  -  along with the expression, mind and emotions.   Trying to whittle away at our creation - to edit - no matter how logical our reason - and for what purpose - we draw back, twisted with panic - avoiding the knife ... as though the blade was to be laid against our flesh - either to slice deeply, or just scrap away thin slivers.

It hurts!  I almost can't stand it - and become strangely unreasonable - pushing at the ridiculous hostility which surges up in me at the thought of forcing myself to 'hone' at my living words.

These eccentrics - these sometimes perverse and uncontrolled wires which coil with vengeance - unexpected within my gut - then snap, hot and loose - pressing against my insides when unsuspecting   'foreign-lips'  venture their opinion,  laced with their opinionated blade.  I find myself struggling for blank-faced control - and left with my own solitary sense of being  alien - someway,  detached from the main-stream of the humanity which I have allowed to fill my world.

Dallas Beth Williams Gibson

Journal Entry - December 24, l990

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