“People on the outside think there’s something magical about writing, that you go up in the attic at midnight and cast the bones and come down in the morning with a story, but it isn’t like that. You sit in back of the typewriter and you work, and that’s all there is to it.” – Harlan Ellison
I’ve always loved the “idea” of being a writer, an artist, painting with words, but what of the science? Sounds, syllables in symbiosis.
I love the idea of perfecting the craft, but what of the real work,
the truth behind the romance, the “starving writer”?
All you writers, do you require a push, the rush of deadline, readership?
Promise of riches?
Is poetry your calling, non-fiction, or do you want to create characters,
fiction out of thin air?
Do you work to uncover, archaeologist style, the story beneath the dream? I have no aching urge to tell a story.
Rather, to sort life out on the page, piece by piece.
I’m a musician, understand patience, frustration in practice.
Symphonies are not spontaneous, flowing from desire alone.
Note by tedious note,
the effect appearing . . . effortless.
Late-night smoky-bar writing sessions. Or
home, dirty coffee mug, lazy pants. Or
tea on 4th street. The art is not in the atmosphere but in the science of the words,
All you writers – is writing an art or a science for you? I would love to hear your thoughts.
Song of the week: “It Is Not Meant To Be” – Tame Impala (Perfect summer weekend song)