k got me to thinking, from a recent comment of hers, and I went back to January of last year, and found this. If somebody else had written it, I would still like it, a lot. Oh, and the link is dead, so don't bother. And I'm too lazy to fix it.Too bad. It was really that good. Anyway, enjoy.
A Fine......piece of writing.
That is how it's done, folks. Being able to take the mundane, and make someone want to read it til the end, well... you know you have arrived. That article is as dry as a mouthful of yeast, and yet it sparkles like champagne. There lies the 'gift'. To take plain grapes, and turn them into something sparkly and bright, yet not too sweet like some faggoty aperitif.
No color at all, to speak of, yet you know your mouth has been visited by something special, and your brain is pleasantly numb from the experience.
Oh, to be sure, there comes a time to hold a handful of fat spikes in one hand, a sturdy mallet in the other, and just pound them into someone's soft spot until their eyes bleed, but mostly, writing, to me, anyway, is about the balance of seasonings. You ask yourself at the beginning, what kind of dish you wish to prepare, and then line up the ingredients, and commence to cook.
Do I want to sprinkle punctuation around like an Athenian farmer, flinging seeds everywhere around? Or do I want to let it all flow like a stream of babbling coolness to flood in and soak dry brown earth and turn it black.
Am I a painter today, or a mechanic? What hat am I wearing. Having a rack of hats is a useful thing for a word-slinger. Hard hats, helmets, beanies, they all come to play a role, sometimes you are switching frantically between them, and...
Generally, when you find yourself doing that, you have gone off the road, and a crash helmet might be more appropriate. You do not think about riding the bicycle when you are riding the bicycle, the road just unrolls beneath you.
No, Grasshopper, parrots can talk, but only you can write. A skill that is as sacred, as it is mundane.
Words mean things, so make them mean things, and let no one tell you in what pattern to sew them together. Now, there's a paradox for you.
My point there, if I have one at all (and you'd have to be the judge of that) is that there are poets, and there are plodders. Airy fairy folks who sprinkle out words like they are releasing butterflies, and furrowed folk whose tongues are black from licking their pencils and carving graphite into understandable equations.
Each has their place, and both have made great art, in their time. Some people sweat blood, daub it up with cotton balls, and smear it large.
Some deal in cold, cold pixels. Each has their place.
The challenge, if there is one, is to find yours.
Me? Still searching...