I hate to write.
No. That's not right.
I hate to be criticized.
I spent four years (and a lot of money) at a private college learning how to write. Paper after paper after paper. Somehow...I knew I would never be the next modern american lit phenom. Too "dry" my professors would tell me. You're not writing a research paper. Not very verbose...are you? Filler. Can you expand on this? I'm sorry...I don't do fluff, floral or fauna. I might do Frank...but you'd have to ask him first. oohh.....the silent banter that often fills my head...
My preference has always been in the reading. It still is. Words....fascinate me. A sentence can swoop me up and transport me to other worlds. Hush me with silent joy. Envelope me in emotions. And... drown me with tears that run at the drop of a single word.
I read Bukowski....and hear his voice. Just the right emphasis. Perfect delivery. Seems fitting...it is his writing.
I read Shakespeare...and find myself staring face to face with Lear. Hating Goneril and Ragen. A silent pawn, watching from the wings.
Every word...speaks volumes. Every word...opens a door. Every word...Write. Write. Write.
Yeah......right.
2 comments:
Funny because I believe your writing is incredible. So succint (sp?) but it says SO much.
Anyone can write like your professors style. No one writes like YOU.
Had to say something. This is absolutely awesome. I seriously felt everything you were saying. Now you know what I mean by the three right chords, or what they can do to me. Great piece. Truly.
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