There’s a bird species I think in New Guinea that, in response to brood parasitism, developed a trick whereby they can actually communicate with the chick inside the egg.  “Shave and a haircut,” and from within the egg, “Two bits” – or you get chucked out of the nest.  (sorry don’t remember source)

In order for that trick to work, the chick needs to know the proper response by pure instinct, doesn’t it?  Maybe not.  Maybe it works by teaching the eggy the song, then checking for the trained response on each return to the nest.

Kinda ruins where I was going with this.  I was thinking about language, and to what extent it can be inborn or has to be taught.  Bouba/Kiki notwithstanding, all of human language is constructed (and under construction lol).

It’s artificial, and that can be easy to lose sight of, perhaps moreso for the monolingual.  Good writing feels like it speaks directly from one heart to another, no barriers to understanding in the way.

It feels like that, but it’s a trick.  The words the author chose might not perfectly convey their intent; the reader may infer things wrongly due to their own biases.  Both sides can put in a good effort to speak and to hear, and with cultural common ground and education, probably get pretty close to spot on.  But you never know.

Which I’m thinking of as a writer.  When you’re writing, sometimes it comes out very natural and easy.  Sometimes you feel like the world’s biggest faker – not an imposter syndrome thing, but an awareness of the artifice of every technique you are using.

I don’t think there’s a good solution to that issue.  Some days it’ll be like that; some days it won’t.  But when you’re feeling fake, keep pushing through.  You might find when you come back to read that writing later, it feels effortlessly clear.

Or not, and you can edit or rewrite, whatever.  Just be aware, the best writing in the world is artificial too.  Bon courage.

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Once upon a time, my brother beat me in a rap battle on my own blog, and I just ran out of sauce for it.  But this sucks.  How can I speak with any authority upon this throne of lies?  I have to beat him again.  It looks like a battle of words, but really it’s a battle of whose life has the most hectic crap in it draining our mental resources.

Round two!  And anybody who wants to snatch a crown can do so as well, in the comment section.  Throw down!

Draw down, said Wyatt  Earp
and skin that smokewagon
Little baby get burped
cuz u drank from my flagon
Biting my style just like ya mom’s titty
Now u get kicked out of Paradise City
And welcomed unto the Axl Rose Jungle
I’m Faith No More and you’re Mr. Bungle
Get a piece of these rhymes
For the price that I’m sellin’ ’em
Is kind of a crime
Zero dolla felon ‘n’
You too could be rich like me
If you can rhyme this tight
But can’t be a hot bitch like me
So I bid you good night

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