Alrighty, well... I guess now that I have gotten past the blank page staring back at me, I can begin this thing. I definitely find that the blank page is the most intimidating feature of my world. Of course, it truly represents an infinite power and authority to determine the course of creation, but that power can be so awesome as to strike otherwise fantastically intelligent people dumb.
The sheer recognition of that fact makes the blankness of the initial page, of the initial post, of the initial composition a position in which most authors perpetually find themselves. It is in the emptiness of the void, alone and intimidated, that I think most authors find themselves, afraid and uncertain.
In a true Post-structuralist interpretation of the creation (ha, I like that) of authored works, it is sad to consider that even the best of us might only approach that amorphous conception, truly birthed in the light of our respective creative processes of genius, to which we aspire. Language is indeed, horribly limiting.
To the initiated, those who have read theory critical to the understanding of creation and interpretation, the inversion is palpable. Language simultaneously empowers the author to create that which has been previously void and limits that which is created to predefined modes of expression, determined by both the individual experience of the author and the contextual situation into which he/she was born.
We, as mere mortals, invent new an often incomprehensible theory to describe our processes of dealing with the fickle bitch that is language. But sadly, these theories too are invariably bound up in the trap, implicitly coded within the devices of language used to transmit them from the mind of the author to the world.
Only occasionally do we peak at a glimmer of those things truly genuine and unassailable from the ferocious giant of language.
Well, how simply does one end such an initial thought? I have been trying to figure it out for three paragraphs. Here we go:
NUTS!
