morning coffee chat on the same ol’ same ol’

I’ve said a bunch of times and the validity remains staunch as ever, that the capabilities modern times have bestowed to people like me, regarding blogging and self-publishing ebooks, well I don’t know how to exactly illustrate except that it’s like I (whoever feels as I should certainly feel welcome to use their own I) had to hang around long enough for these wonders to come along.

It eliminates so many headaches and worries. But it doesn’t eliminate all of them. All that really happens is the emergence of different worries and headaches, though they’d apply more to the ebook self-publishing than to blogging; almost exclusively to ebook self-publishing over blogging.

It’s a good and a bad pressed together. If I look over a work and it looks ready I can do a few clicks and it’s on the way to being visible around the world. But after it’s visible around the world I might check it out again and see glaring mistakes that I’m sure snuck in during the transition phase. This is one of the many times I become actually glad that not too many eyes have given it a gander. I can go and fix a few things and return it to worldwide visibility.

The mechanical errors are easy calls. Typos. Misspellings. Spacings. They are frustrating and hairs become sacrificed, but they are easy because there is no need to engage in an internal debate. Armistices do not sleep on shaky ground.

Armistices never rest well with the other stuff. Armistices don’t really exist. Neither side really trusts the other. One concludes with a sigh of relief that it is surprisingly not that bad, maybe even funny. Come up with ways to try and describe that will prepare strange eyes. Try to think of them as little parties, perhaps, that you’ve entered a party or a gigantic mansion where lots of little parties are going on – all kinds of little parties – and if you’d be floating through them, you’d encounter various degrees of clarity or calm or atmospheres where the moods are dark or smoky or filled with effervescence and confetti or something intimate or whatever other mixtures, the supreme question would be if coming they were glad they came and no hard feelings from the host if they really rather not stay.

That sentiment is shortly challenged by the side that says that’s all a bunch of bull. This section or that section need a lot more attention and development – it was better with the thick and dense stanzas – or whatever was before was better than what it became – should’ve left it alone – what the hell were you talking about there and there? This isn’t really poetry, but just prose broken up into stanzas. Why not just leave it in paragraphs and apply stricter strictures on the meandering habits. And an immersion in a dictionary for a couple weeks wouldn’t hurt.

Yet even when these clashes prohibit security in faith or self-confidence gets kicked in the shins, decisions do rest in my hands; and potential readers have equal liberty to involve or go about their merry way.

This then brings along the old dilemma about truth and truths and who ought to determine what is true for anyone; which is impossible with something so subjective as poetics. I was always  fascinated why when totalitarian regimes arise there is a need to seriously regulate things like literary expressions. Always confounded me why anyone would feel the need to put a poet in prison.

Well I think I now know why. Literary expressions allow for a writer or a reader to hold their own truth in their hands. And they can decide to change them as the mood calls for.

And while it is often frustrating and a fantasy frequently visits about how sweet it would be to settle so many of these matters, I’d rather leave them unsettled and not bother with armistices, than to relinquish such latitudes to an authority legislating an absolute truth, even if I agree with it – because tomorrow I may not.




About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
This entry was posted in no idea, observation, opinion, poetry, ramble, self-publishing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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