Ancient enemy of writers past
Akin to the new foe in appearance
As well as implication.
A pristine canvas, devoid of blemish
Anticipating the violation of creation.
Not much... I was interrupted! That’s right: not much of a riddle but it does have a ring of truth about it. The audacity of writing about writing is a gleeful blasphemy undertaken by us lesser mortals with the inclination, sometimes even the raw ability, to write. What we lack is tenacity enough to put pen to paper or fingers to keys sufficient to produce something substantial so as to be worthy of the appellation ‘writing’. We lack the discipline to, through routine, commit thoughts to permanency and justify waning time, opportunity or inspiration - each the co-conspirator of unproductivity - as being the real reason behind the blank pages and empty screens we leave in our wake.
The truth is that we are frauds, us Sisters and Brothers, Fellows of the Blank Page. Because truly there is only one criterion on which declaring oneself a writer is dependant: writing. Not the lofty, unreachable, elitist oligarchy that those who write for a living strive overmuch to perpetuate for fear of - what? - dilution of the calibre of their ranks? Preposterous. We can all be writers, and many more of us could make a living doing so than at present. Indeed how often have we each read something - a poem, a short story, an epic saga of unfathomable proportions - and thought privately but quite sincerely: ‘I could do better’. Perhaps we could. Perhaps we even dare to espouse this view. Perhaps the most audacious of us (maybe even mendacious) might even write a critique, one surely intended to warn fellow ‘aspiring writers’ of pitfalls to avoid.
We are frauds, all of us, our twisted, embittered, envious, frightened Fellowship of the Blank Page. For we know, even if only dimly in the recesses of our creative minds, the truth: there are no aspiring writers. We do not exist! There are writers who are published and writers who are not. There are writers of quality and those of none. There are writers who are celebrated and writers who are not. But there is not a one of them who cannot claim to be, unlike each member of our Fellowship, a writer.
Today my aspirations have been despoiled, pillaged by my inspiration.
Today I have become a writer.
Akin to the new foe in appearance
As well as implication.
A pristine canvas, devoid of blemish
Anticipating the violation of creation.
Not much... I was interrupted! That’s right: not much of a riddle but it does have a ring of truth about it. The audacity of writing about writing is a gleeful blasphemy undertaken by us lesser mortals with the inclination, sometimes even the raw ability, to write. What we lack is tenacity enough to put pen to paper or fingers to keys sufficient to produce something substantial so as to be worthy of the appellation ‘writing’. We lack the discipline to, through routine, commit thoughts to permanency and justify waning time, opportunity or inspiration - each the co-conspirator of unproductivity - as being the real reason behind the blank pages and empty screens we leave in our wake.
The truth is that we are frauds, us Sisters and Brothers, Fellows of the Blank Page. Because truly there is only one criterion on which declaring oneself a writer is dependant: writing. Not the lofty, unreachable, elitist oligarchy that those who write for a living strive overmuch to perpetuate for fear of - what? - dilution of the calibre of their ranks? Preposterous. We can all be writers, and many more of us could make a living doing so than at present. Indeed how often have we each read something - a poem, a short story, an epic saga of unfathomable proportions - and thought privately but quite sincerely: ‘I could do better’. Perhaps we could. Perhaps we even dare to espouse this view. Perhaps the most audacious of us (maybe even mendacious) might even write a critique, one surely intended to warn fellow ‘aspiring writers’ of pitfalls to avoid.
We are frauds, all of us, our twisted, embittered, envious, frightened Fellowship of the Blank Page. For we know, even if only dimly in the recesses of our creative minds, the truth: there are no aspiring writers. We do not exist! There are writers who are published and writers who are not. There are writers of quality and those of none. There are writers who are celebrated and writers who are not. But there is not a one of them who cannot claim to be, unlike each member of our Fellowship, a writer.
Today my aspirations have been despoiled, pillaged by my inspiration.
Today I have become a writer.
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