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Proud to be a Writer |
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Category: Art & Music Description: Writing's not just an art and hobby -- it's a way of life. Type: public Created By: azgolem
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Poetry, fiction, non-fiction and zesty romance -- anything goes when you combine sexuality and the urge to write...
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Writing and ideas |
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Posted By: Coeurdansant on: 10/13/09 5:53 PM |
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"Writing cannot express all words, words cannot encompass all ideas." - Confucius, Ji Ying (Classic of Changes) |
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The body and language |
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Posted By: Coeurdansant on: 9/28/09 5:52 PM |
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"In the average person, I imagine, the body precedes language. In my case, words came first of all; then - belatedly, with every appearance of extreme reluctance, and already clothed in concepts - came the flesh. It was already, as goes without saying, sadly wasted by words." - Yukio Mishima, Sun and Steel |
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Mecca at Starbucks |
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Posted By: Coeurdansant on: 9/25/09 7:07 PM |
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I did not hear the greeting at first; he said hello quickly in his low voice. I heard it again and lifted my head; my face had been buried in the article I was reading. At first I could not see his face. His tight white t-shirt was dazzling in the sudden brilliance of the neon streetlamp. His dark face was lost in the solid white until he smiled and then I recognized him. In the mere seconds of this exchange I could only manage a slow but polite hello. By the time the smile was completed on my face, he had entered the cafe, no doubt to get his coffee before coming back out to sit here among the sidewalk tables. My mind traveled backward across the months, reluctantly recalling the many times we had seen each other at this cafe and smiled politely, said a few words of greeting on occasion, even once engaging in two or three minutes of small talk. I traveled back across the months to the numerous times that I had seen him elsewhere, passing by on the sidewalk plugged into his music device, in the gym - sweating at the machines and plugged into his music device - at the gym showers, wrapped in his towel walking to a stall with his smooth black skin glistening. Always there was the polite smile and nod of the head but nothing more. His smiles were like tonight, noncommittal, like smiling to a fellow passenger on a train bound into the caffeine night. Back in those days, I was the disciple of Beauty; wherever She was rumored to be holding forth, teaching Her devotees by way of example, I would seek Her out. My face was buried again in the article. I sensed him pass behind me and pick a table near the end of the outdoor seating area. Like all poor disciples, there came the time when I too grew disillusioned with my Prophet. Beauty had ultimately failed; Her teachings proved fleeting, the promised meaning never appearing with each disappointing glimpse. Still, distant as this Avatar of Beauty had been, I held the hope that I could one day say more than hello, sit comfortably and talk with him a while under the black sky and the neon streetlamps with all the people rushing by as they did just now, the constant tumult of pedestrians causing me to read the same sentence three times: "L'Abri, though intense and strange, had not prepared Frank for the open money-grubbing cynicism of Big Religion in America, for the outright contempt many of the big pastors felt toward their followers and the commercialization of everything Jesus." Or was it something else distracting me; yes, there it was, the thought that I should get up, walk over to him and offer him the magazine, talk about the book review on a founder of the Religious Right, or about the article on the Iraq War veterans who were routinely denied medical benefits. I stood up. There, at my feet, I could almost see lines radiating from them along the ground in all directions, like spokes on a great wheel - lines that represented possible futures - one such line leading directly to the table at the far end, a return pilgrimage to the Prophet Beauty. Then the French people arrived. The wheel began to turn. But tonight I would be crushed under the wheel if I stayed. The French people always came, a community of expatriates who talked long and loud and smoked incessantly, probably comfortable that no American would understand their conversation - they did not know that I understood them fully but had never responded to their greetings in anything other than English. Tonight the French would detain me with their talk and I would be rooted to the spot, glancing up as he left the cafe before I could say anything. As I got up to leave, one of the Frenchmen greeted me; we engaged in polite small talk about the long days of work. Then I wished him goodnight and walked away, in the opposite direction of Mecca. |
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Why write |
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Posted By: Coeurdansant on: 9/16/09 5:15 PM |
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"The great mass of human beings are not acutely selfish. After the age of about thirty they abandon individual ambition - in many cases, indeed, they abandon the sense of being individuals at all - and live chiefly for others or are simply smothered under drudgery. But there is also the minority of gifted, wilful people who are determined to live their own lives to the end, and writers belong to this class." - George Orwell, Why I Write |
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The writing questions. |
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Posted By: Coeurdansant on: 6/28/09 8:20 AM |
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When I look at these recent postings, the questions come to mind, as they nearly always do when I read something, anything.
The main question is: When we write, do we ask ourselves to what end? Why are we stringing these words together for the universe to see? Perhaps it's just to vent or to rant. Perhaps it's to tell a story that has real significance, a story that can provide insight into the human condition, into our culture, or the like. But maybe not - maybe we write for the sake of writing. Still, after "art for art's sake," I find that rationale difficult to accept. Take for instance so-called "horror erotica." Is the horror and eroticism its own end, or are they simply tools the writer can use to say something about the roots of human nature? And what of writing that is strictly "fantasy, action, comedy, suspense, and vulgar"? Is this all done to relieve the writer's stress from living in the modern world? As writers we all have the responsibility to ask these questions before we write, while we are writing, and after we have written. Invariably, the questions will inform and shape our writing constantly. It is those questions that may change the word order, the words, or simply eliminate the entire phrase "speak, sing, scream, sleep." Among all those questions - like "What is the message?" "How will I convey the message?" "Should I use some kind of symbolism?" "Are characters needed?" "Which characters will speak; how will they be developed?" - there is a related but separate question, and it has to do with the idea that all writing is in some way political. That question is: "What is my moral responsibility in this story as the writer of the story?" I find that artists have tremendous influence in our modern society, which is so attached to image and sound. So, to me, the artists have a serious responsibility to examine the impact that their work has. What is the impact? That is another question. And let's not forget writing structure. Is it really necessary to take grammar and throw it out the window? Sometimes it may indeed be necessary. Writing conventions have their own value and serve the purpose of clarity. But sometimes obfuscation is the order of the day; then a writer may appropriately depart from those conventions. Obviously, there are no hard and fast anwers to these questions. But still we must ask them. In so doing, we become better writers. |
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