Room to Write page 9 is yet another freewriting activity, this time launching from the word “game.” If you’re writing this by hand, you’re supposed to fill 3 pages before stopping. The idea, once again, is to unleash whatever comes to mind without thinking about it–writing needs to be messy sometimes. In the trash might be some treasure to incorporate into your writing projects, but if there isn’t, no need to feel guilty in just discarding it. Goldberg likens it to the necessity of mixing clay before being able to mold it into a sculpture. Okay, then, time to find what comes out of the ol’ grey matter tonight.
GAME game on you have a problem with this? bring it bring it on sucka I am so sick and loathing of people who play these petty games don’t leave things be lose all sense of perspective and just lose themselves in nonsense the rotten recesses of their own minds and feeding nothing to those who need it most giving not but taking all and dumbly standing by to let others pass without lifting a finger to help in the endeavor and they watch and they jeer and they crumble in their own self-loathing they forget the rules they impose on themselves but hold others strictly accountable and whatever happened to the happy connotation of game child’s games they were fun once but it’s acceptable when children not adults playing at children’s games mild lost to tea and egg pie and muddle gunk and tomfoolery wizened but not wise enough they bore me tore me ripped me off and can now f*** off for all I care the consequences may be harsh but I can withstand I can withstand I speak boldly but pray I can can really hold up to this torment this swallow this this this junk that they may expose me to and I try to hold my head above the the cesspool not inhaling its chunky funk and drowning from it stabbing my brain with it it’s dead dead sinking fallen swollen hardened whitened flaking and saturated and wallowing on its own at the bottom but I will rise I must rise I must stay above and do so by not being so lofty the helium I pump into my ego my conceit my superiority my arrogance will not be what lifts me in the end but be the iron ball bearing in my waist coat pocket that pulls me down the gravity of the situation that levels where I ought to be and nothing more. floating atop the refuse of others’ garbage and spew and not being able to lift from it for I contribute to it my face down in spongy stench and adrift with secretions of my own fallacy i drift wade I stroke I preen I try to stay clean try to stay dry until I reach the island before me just a few strokes further yet with every splash comes another wave to send me back further from where I started the fish nibble at my toes and I catch my breath and try to inhale the purity calmness gaseous extremity that I can believe in the cool quake calmness of din and then I reach the apex of snow and glide and glisten along my way the sunny fresh extremes of hilltops glossed in icing and glint and free falling to a furry escape.
I don’t know if my onscreen attempt would have reached 3 pages or not, but what I do know is that my brain physically hurts now that I stopped. I’m very tired, for one, but another reason is the simple fact that freewriting is like bench-pressing for your mind. It’s a way to keep it bulked up and toned at the same time as setting it free. This time I actually typed with my eyes closed, going back afterwards only to correct for spelling. I found that visuals came to me more clearly that way, even if I couldn’t pause to think through how to describe them well enough. I can’t say I can find anything to salvage from what I spewed above, but it was worth the attempt. It’s all about “showing up on the page,” as Goldberg says.