Driven

I had some great things to write about driving home from cell meeting tonight, and by the time I hit the door they were gone. Shower thoughts I can usually get written down in time. Driving thoughts, however, are mental vaporware.

In an attempt to snare driving thoughts, I once took a mini tape recorder on a cross-country drive. I filled three tapes over five days. I never listened to them. Why not?

First, I recall a startling lack of clever outside my head as compared to inside it. Driving thoughts usually undergo a polishing process while I drive. I think of a thing: an essay, a dialogue, a pithy quote. Then I think of a better way to say it. Then even better. By the fourth or fifth pass it looks pretty good. But if I try to say it out loud I arrest the process -- I only get the clunky first version. No wa in that process.

Second, I can't type worth a damn, so transposition would take as long as the recording.

Third, I do not have the personal fortitude to listen to my voice for several hours. I don't know how other people do it.

Fourth, I suspect that some of it is cripplingly embarrassing.



I wish for telepathic transmission to a blog. Once I hone my bon mots from the road, I beam them straight to the tablet where they will appear in written form. Some time later, the fat checks arrive for all the amazing cleverness.

(No one has to buy anything, but as long as I'm telepathically transmitting thoughts, I'll also learn to absorb money from the ether in exchange for cleverness. Once I can do that, then I'll absorb money from the ether in exchange for reading Fark.)

Edit: I've been back to hone this entry three times now. Maybe revision is just in the blood.