drmstream[writing]

Feet by Jor­gen Sedholm

When  I walk along the street, the imagery is vital and immediate.

A strong jaw.

Her lips make deep creases when they purse.

He’s got his shoul­ders thrown back like he’s been con­grat­u­lated about some­thing that he didn’t do.

Her fore­head is pressed for­ward as if she’s look­ing into life through a plate glass window.

That man is lit­tle and knows it, he’s wor­ried that he’s going to get cheated out of some­thing if he doesn’t watch out.

The young girl’s got a smile big­ger than her face, she just lights up every­thing around her.

That’s the stream — an end­less wash of impres­sions that come in bits and pieces, instan­ta­neous moments of insight that are dis­jointed and out of con­text.  They are incred­i­bly pow­er­ful, and they make you want more.

What’s funny is how many times you get to talk­ing with some­one and all of those bright parts of who they are go away.  They are pieces of pack­ing car­tons, with bright sur­faces and stan­dard card­board underneath.

The trick to writ­ing well is to take the pieces of the stream that sing, knit them together and fight the impulse of peo­ple to be bor­ing and mun­dane when the light shines on them.