On Writing

It seems to me that writing, of all the arts, has the broadest playing field, the greatest scope, and the best opportunity to portray life, realistically or not, in a manner which will provide insights and provoke thoughts. 

 

The painter or visual artist captures a moment.   The photographer even more so.   The sculptor cannot adequately describe the passage of time.   The musician is hemmed in by the ranges of tone available from the instrument or voice, the finite limits of melody, rhythm, and tone.   Lyrics are actually writing, a form of poetry, so I will include them in my impression.  

 

The writer can describe anything and everything, the living or inanimate, the temperature, the texture, the colors, the atmosphere or environment, the mood.   Effective writing spans time, condenses action, dares imagination that shatters all boundaries.   It can be incredibly beautiful, or ugly as sin.   Writing encompasses the love letter, pornography, filth and fantasy.   It resonates within us, once in a while, shedding light upon the universal aspects of life.   Other writings anger and divide the readers, creating emotions all the while.  The writer can soothe, invite compassion, cultivate understanding, or confuse and conflict, for words on a page have no conscience.   Perhaps that’s why it is so taxing to attempt to be a writer.   The promise is so important, almost sacred at any level; while the perils can be utterly desperate.   It is a lonely craft, tedious and gut-wrenching.   The only reason any of us do it, I suppose, is because it is necessary.   Writing is the art form of good, clear, responsive observation and thinking, the recording of worthwhile thoughts so they might be shared with others.   No other human endeavor is so frustrating and rewarding except, perhaps, golf.