Writing : Why on earth overwrite?

       My thoughts on the question above about overwriting might as well be overwritten.  It's by now an ancient problem to me.  I have gained a wee bit of experience, it seems, in regards to what seems like an ancient, common problem with mysterious borders. 

      I think of my overwriting problem in a committment to the idea that its undeniably my most formidable and many-tentacled obstacle, to writing really good stuff instead of dribble, and therefore as an obstacle that needs sandblasting out of my life.  But clearly its also an entrenched thing, this kind of always reaching for the connections but forgetting what the hell they're fictionally connected to -- and there you go thirty pages of crap that occludes rather than enhances.  And what fun it is to read crap that doesn't have a thing that so much as resembles a ground a week later?

       So there is this ancient question of when a gift with wordd is real and serves the fiction, and when it is artifice and serves a twisted narcissist, pounding some self-absorbed fir or another into a keyboard mirror.  I think especially since to some extent any sort of fictional attempt is artifice there's danger of running for the hills from the truths about the characters in their respective situations.

       If I, the condemned overwriter, let's say, hypothetically, were to gather together enough words that would prefer to visit space then it becomes much easier to run from the truth of characters, and to run from caring enough about their environments and situations to describe them well. So there in the objective distance of ideas where everything still bleeds, but in a sense (once the sensual grit of real life vanishes) bloodlessly, the chance for an interesting fiction goes dark.

       Every scene, I would say, if I were forced at gunpoint to guess, hypothetically, is seen backwards through a telescope from a nameless Pluto where mercifully enough no other human beings are in sight, And from a place as airless and cold as that, even profuse bleeding bleeds bloodlessly.  From this lofty and perhaps dark-blue vantage point, the writer's own attitude toward his fiction can grow darker and more distant; I'm pretty sure about this. 

      It becomes the usual existential poof well done or poorly done, and how many light years are really noticing anyway, and so why not throw dark, disconnected pictures all over your creation, so another darkly self-absorbed  thing nobody cares for comes rushing into existence flying in on a bad mood, and because it is ether that makes no imapct flying out in a worse one.

        But that's just the bad stuff.  I think a bad overwritng problem, and one that let's say, as an objective, scientific guess, has been repeatedly and repeatedly diagnosed as such yet sticks around, is yes a little on the mental side, sure.  But I feel or at least hope there is also a very real and good side to it.  However darkness-born and self-centered these years full of ranting rather than fiction writing, have hypothetically been all of their arrows by the use of negative propulsion consistently fly for the light. 

       It seems to me to compulsively overwrite, like some damn genius you don't even know must appear every time one's literate ass-crack hits a chair, is a two-sided coin of sorts. From work to work there's always potential for one very shiny side and one very dark side, and little in between them.  All sorts of art lovers are around getting their many points across, and that makes it a bit confusing, but its pretty much universally acknowledged the shiniest stuff we get to know in this world is hardly the prosaic.  Its always the dream to emerge from the empiric; too many coffins left behind and yet to be, if you ask me.  But the problem with too lofty aspirations, in the form of a work and its style  (like that damn movie The Master that kept me squirming and dying to leave all through) can produce either the most horrifyingly boring stuff imaginable (ieeeeeeeeee, this discussion) of thrilling and interesting work that writer's are capable of. 

      So sorry for all the talking to myself.  The subject of overwriting does a lot more than send me down a thousand roads with bags full of questions, so please, anyone weigh in with whatever you feel like about overwriter's syndrome and symptoms from the hot reds to the cold blues, if you had 'em or got 'em.  I'm currently about getting at the light that leads to good fiction instead of the endless novel, "Mein Crap" with work where the narration is mercifully reduced to a minimum and primarily transportive, and in which two or more characters are right there up front interacting, and dialog is never far away.  I thin it's helping, so gonna go to it on this short story I'm writing for the workshop called Burning Professionals.  

        Anyway, yeah, the bright side.  Let's say, hypothetically of course, there's a bright side.  Then I may imagine perhaps some flagrant twisted-mirror gawker, learning over a streak of time or preferably forever how to take figurative flights that are effectively tangential to an interesting plot.  And more importantly, the right proportion between landings and taking off that has the ground of his characters and their situations as a first priority in to out, and really the one and only priority, so that each one of them though they are vaporous lifes will feel unique in their experience.  Because that's a shot at empathy that reaches readers and helps them feel a truth about this world in turn, rather than a solitary exercise in Plutonian (is Plutonian still a word, or was it ever, and if so, have the scientists put the kibosh on it) egg-headedness, 

      So, damn the length of everything I write.  But the point is even a good attempt at turning my too massive, first draft of a novel into a very good fiction, with a red heartbeat would be, it seems to me, unscientifically speaking, miraculous.  So thanks for the time.  Rx, Flyby.