January 24, 1994

Keep The Pages Flowing!
Keep the pages flowing!
Do not stop!
One hour of writing a day.
In the process, I hope to come up with something of value. I want to win people’s love and admiration. A little worship from animals wouldn’t hurt either. After all, they have souls, and, even though they can’t pay mortgages, a little worshipful energy from them wouldn’t hurt.
I feel vulnerable this morning. I feel vulnerable whenever I write. I walk on the edge. I have no idea where my words come from. They seem magical, a gift from above. When I write I seem to disappear; my hands become instruments.
Creation can cease or overwhelm me at any moment. Will the word gifts keep arriving? Must I pray, beg, fall down on my knees? Is sitting at the computer enough?
No one knows how a word is created, much less a sentence, poem, or novel. Yes, I wrote them yesterday, but will I write them again today? Every morning I stand at the edge of a cliff, peering into a new abyss.
I jump. . .and hope I can fly.
Creativity combines creation and destruction. The old must be destroyed before the new can be created. Creativity and security are opposites.
When I write, dancing in the frightening limbo of the ever-hanging present, I destroy my yesterday before I create my tomorrow.
Security is an illusion. There is only the hope for security, the hope that somewhere in a future paradise it will exist for you. Hope for that drives you on, fuels your daily fare.
What a shock to realize that, for the creative individual, security does not exist–and all human beings are creative, though much of their daily creation consists in denying their creativity by searching for security.
Are the dead creative, too? Perhaps, but quietly so.

I am returning to conversational Hebrew–and conversational Hungarian, Czech, Bulgarian, and Turkish.
Back to pages that flow and sing, sounds of Old English and Middle English, Old Norse and biblical Hebrew, medieval Hungarian and Church Slavonic, medieval Bulgarian and beyond. Weld and fuse these ancient languages with modern Norwegian, Icelandic, Bulgarian, Czech, Hebrew, and Turkish. Read More →

January 25, 1994
Writing as Transcendence
I’m writing fast. Otherwise my creative process may dry up. Is that possible? Can mere distraction can turn my field commander into a corpse?
Who is creating?
Me?
God?
Or is it God through me?
He calls out the words, passes them through my mind, hands, fingertips, and into the computer.
If this is the creative process, then I have nothing to fear. I am simply doing what comes naturally, speaking through the transcendent voice. An eternal whisper haunts my being. Great strength drips down from the transcendent.
But it is difficult to remember, difficult to reconcile. What part of me is transcendent? Right side, left side, front side, backside? Eyes, ears, nose, throat? I think not. The transcendent, my eternal part, is unseen, unheard, beyond touch, taste, and smell. . . even beyond thought. When my material self disintegrates and vanishes in a spasm of death, my transcendent will hover over my corpse, have a good laugh, then move on.
Where it will go? Perhaps it may tour distant planets and galaxies, or vacation on a distant beach in another universe, or move into another body. But I will always be in touch with it through my writing as its words, sentences,and ideas sift through my hands.
Thus, there is no reason to worry, to write fast or slow, to wonder if my creativity will suddenly dry up. How can it? It’s part of the universe.
Even the thought of drying up is part of the universe.

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Keep the pages flowing! 
Do not stop!
One hour of writing a day.
In the process, I hope to come up with something of value. I want to win people’s love and admiration. A little worship from animals wouldn’t hurt either. After all, they have souls, and, even though they can’t pay mortgages, a little worshipful energy from them wouldn’t hurt. Read More →