Scribe on

When I was sitting about like a bump on a log being sick and not writing, I wondered what it was that made the act of writing so important to some people. There is story-telling, maybe it is not a new story but an oldie that could get a different twist to it, an update, revelations from notes previously unheard of. Perhaps it is ‘new’- well, as far as the writer knows, for it is true, there is nothing new under the sun. Not that that should deter, most of us fare better in a crowd, not out on a limb like a bird.

There is the ‘stirring of heart-strings’ aspect to tale-telling, which is very gratifying if the writer can get just the right ‘tweak’ to the story, without destroying logic or the time line. And, there are only so many times the egg can be whacked on the head before it collapses into a mess. Monday’s tweak may not reach Tuesday, many can attest to that.

Truthfulness and Honesty in writing are much appreciated by the reader; they can fancy themselves on a par with the writer, for are they not also truthful and honest? The problem is that Truth and Honesty as the back-bone of a story can hold up no further than a parson’s Sunday sermon, for as with heart strings, they are bad travellers. Life moves on; pick out another soulful tune on your fiddle by way of a change.

I decided writing wasn’t any one thing, it was everything, it was a visceral reaction, which could make mouths drool the instant words arose in the mind and allowed themselves to be captured. The writer’s take on the world, no matter how laboured, trivial, convoluted, inaccurate or boring it might be, is always a valid expression that has found its time to blossom. As we know some of these flowers have become eternal, others, well, we don’t live an equable existence, great beauty can be very fleeting, seen by only a limited audience.

The Creative Muse, whatever tools are used, moulds the large, rough, inert block of potential, and makes people see though different eyes, hear with opened ears, think again about something that had seemed so obvious and pat a moment before.
Writers are hewers of wood, toters of bales, they play their part, like everyone else, in the activities that make Life go forward, they too continuously renew the foundations of this existence, for if they didn’t, what on earth are we standing on?


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