Write
- Get link
- X
- Other Apps
"What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. This doesn't happen much, though." (J.D. Salinger, "The Catcher in the Rye)
I once read somewhere that writing a book is the closest a man will ever come to delivering a child. The source is correct. This particular contribution will not turn out to be a book of any size despite the amount of labor that goes into writing it. Nevertheless, it is still close enough to child delivery. Permit me for a moment to stain this page with the blood and water of this effort.
Composition is
a fascinating exercise, allowing one to speak to a page for an audience of one
or millions, for old times’ sake or for all time or for a waste of time. The
reasons are myriad why one would write and while one may today say, “this is
the reason I write,” he may find another reason tomorrow or none at all.
Perhaps he may reflect and embarrassed, decide yesterday’s reason for writing
was no reason at all. One can only imagine how he must view the child of his
imagination.
One reason for writing is finding voice. Many exercises exist to help one find a voice. I hope to find my own someday. Those with voice often speak just as they write and these writers are audible in their penned words: John Lithgow and Harlan Ellison write as they speak. Poe and Twain take a mere pinch of imagination, but they can be rendered. Can you discern Steinbeck, Dickens, Hemingway, and Melville as they speak? Then there are some whose voice cannot be heard (Patterson and Clancy come to mind) and the myriads who have simply lost theirs.
Yet, look at all those children! Consider all those words, captured, frozen. Each one tell of its sculptor who, well their passions read, stamped on lifeless pages hands that mocked and hearts that fed.
I once read somewhere that writing a book is the closest a man will ever come to delivering a child. The source is correct. This particular contribution will not turn out to be a book of any size despite the amount of labor that goes into writing it. Nevertheless, it is still close enough to child delivery. Permit me for a moment to stain this page with the blood and water of this effort.
Composition is
a fascinating exercise, allowing one to speak to a page for an audience of one
or millions, for old times’ sake or for all time or for a waste of time. The
reasons are myriad why one would write and while one may today say, “this is
the reason I write,” he may find another reason tomorrow or none at all.
Perhaps he may reflect and embarrassed, decide yesterday’s reason for writing
was no reason at all. One can only imagine how he must view the child of his
imagination.One reason for writing is finding voice. Many exercises exist to help one find a voice. I hope to find my own someday. Those with voice often speak just as they write and these writers are audible in their penned words: John Lithgow and Harlan Ellison write as they speak. Poe and Twain take a mere pinch of imagination, but they can be rendered. Can you discern Steinbeck, Dickens, Hemingway, and Melville as they speak? Then there are some whose voice cannot be heard (Patterson and Clancy come to mind) and the myriads who have simply lost theirs.
Yet, look at all those children! Consider all those words, captured, frozen. Each one tell of its sculptor who, well their passions read, stamped on lifeless pages hands that mocked and hearts that fed.
Writing is one
way to fulfill the design of The Creator with intention. He created with
language, so we who are made in His image, are creative with language; but,
writing is much more than simply arranging words on a page. Writing is
communication (at the least) and expression (at the most). Here is the peak of
creativity. My greatest personal and greatest challenge is to communicate in
ways un-typical. I may be predictable, but here on the page, I cannot be. Why
would I desire to write the same as everyone else? I don’t want to be read the
same as everyone else—I would have no voice! Creativity is a unique
contribution, as far as human effort is concerned and will allow.
Popular posts from this blog
I’ll Be Gnome For Christmas
The Island-Fish
“O ye passengers, whom may God preserve! come up quickly in to the ship, hasten to embark, and leave your merchandise, and flee with your lives, and save yourselves from destruction; for this apparent island, upon which ye are, is not really an island, but it is a great fish that hath become stationary in the midst of the sea, and the sand hath accumulated upon it, so that it hath become like an island, and trees have grown upon it since times of old; and when ye lighted the fire upon it, the fish felt the heat, and put itself in motion, and now it will descend with you into the sea, and ye will all be drowned: then seek for yourselves escape before destruction, and leave the merchandise.—The passengers, therefore, hearing the words of the master of the ship, hastened to go up into the vessel, leaving the merchandise, and their other goods, and their copper cooking-pots, and their fire-pots; and some reached the ship, and others reached it not. The island had moved, and descended...
“And so, about this tomb of mine . . . “
“VANITY, saith the preacher, vanity! Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back? Nephews—sons mine … ah God, I know not! Well— She, men would have to be your mother once, Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was! What’s done is done, and she is dead beside, Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since, And as she died so must we die ourselves, And thence ye may perceive the world’s a dream. Life, how and what is it? As here I lie In this state-chamber, dying by degrees, Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask “Do I live, am I dead?” Peace, peace seems all. Saint Praxed’s ever was the church for peace; And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: —Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care; Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South He graced his carrion with, God curse the same! Yet still my niche is not so cramped...