What better topic for the first post in nearly a year than a reflection on the evolution of one’s writing? It’s worth noting that I’ve given only cursory thought to this matter–I have no map with which to speculate where this post will lead, and any conclusions will be reached purely by means of its composition.

To read in succession several posts of old would, I know, facilitate a smooth continuation of tone–much as one may embody a character on stage by donning their clothes. But I have not done so, for the effect would be temporary–clothes are less personal, less permanent*, than skin. Moreover, far from attempting to disguise any differences in voice, it is precisely these differences I’m curious to see exposed. Denying there ever was an interregnum is no way to capitalize on the months of silence.

There is a very real possibility that any differences in voice cannot, when sought, be seen. In what would be a grand win for Irony, the overt goal of this post may itself render any evolutionary progression impervious to perception. Such a scenario would be akin to the anthropologist’s dilemma: that intractable conundrum of the observer influencing the observed. The only solace available would depend on convincing oneself that that which is not perceived does not exist, or, at least, might as well not.

At this point, visuals will render assistance. The graphs below illustrate major categories of possible evolutionary tracks. It’s important to recognize that:

1. Not all categories are represented
2. A multitude of variations are similarly omitted
3. Lastly, and most grievously, the concept of portraying stylistic changes in writing over time this way may be entirely off the mark. If you’re of this opinion, consider these graphs my futile effort to understand, if only partially, that which resists being understood.

The graphs are interpreted more readily upon accepting the notion that there exists a particular group of nerve cells engaged primarily with composing the type of writing I share here. The differences between graphs can then be considered a result of disparate ways, among many, this group of cells may have fared during the months I didn’t write. Did they languish in desuetude to the point of destruction? Did they enter hibernation and are now being stirred awake? Etc. As usual, time takes residence on the x-axis. The y-axis denotes writing style/voice/tone–term it what you will. A positive slope corresponds to stylistic evolution, while a negative one represents devolution, a suitable definition of which, for my purposes here, is this: an unhealthy evolution–a cancer.

In this first case, the failure to compose anything for nearly a year had no appreciable effect on the associated group of nerve cells, which continued to evolve behind the scenes. While it’s the most desirable scenario presented, I find it unlikely. I subscribe to what I believe to be a fairly well-established tenet of neuroscience: the neural networks of our brains evolve based largely on what we spend our time doing, and, by extension, not doing.

Clearly, a dire case. Not only did the absence of writing wreak havoc on the cells, but the cancer has progressed so far that composition’s resumption will not save them. It’s a convincing possibility, especially if one believes that the neural bonds were weakened while not in use, leaving the cells susceptible to disease. From where did the cancer come? Toxic External Sources. An explanation: when reading a novel by my favorite author, I find stylistic similarities between the published text and anything creative I may simultaneously compose. Who is to say that texts we wish not to remember aren’t similarly internalized? How extensive and impenetrable is the blood-brain barrier? Here’s a fine sample of what I’ve been reading at work and hoping will not precipitate cancer:

On the other hand, one would do well not to underestimate the mind. Just as it can make poison of ambrosia, it might be capable of deflecting harm from TES, as is suggested by this final graph:

As you can see, this is the hibernation case, where, after months of dormancy, the group of cells resume their activity where they left off. I’m comfortable choosing this as the most likely scenario. It strikes a good balance: not overly optimistic, nor without promise. The strongest evidence I have in support of its truth: subjective testimony. Writing this post felt as natural as writing those I wrote before.

*The continual replacement of dead cells with new is conveniently neglected.