A friend and I frequently have heated discussions about periods and semicolons. I prefer periods. “Just commit to an idea,” I say. He pooh-poohs this and expounds on the beauty of the semicolon and independent clause. By anyone’s account he is the analytical one and I am, for whatever it’s worth, the creative one. Yet when I read some of his writing I feel as if I’ve just woken up from a good nap. My mind is slightly fuzzy and every thought is vague but in a ‘relaxing in a whirpool’ sort of way. His writing is like a lazy Sunday afternoon walk through the woods, meandering, with pleasant surprises along the way.

Whereas my writing is more like a midnight dash to the convenience store when you’ve realized you’re out of toilet paper and there’s not a single napkin or papertowel in sight. It’s brief and to the point, concrete and utilitarian.

You’d think, from my statement above, that this is by design, but it’s not. I’d like nothing more than to be able to write flowery prose every once in a while. I don’t want to overdo it because too much can be cloying I think, but there must be a happy medium. I haven’t as yet been able to find that path. Whenever I try it seems rushed to me, a bit manic. That’s hardly the feeling I wish to convey. Not usually anyway.