A few weeks ago, one of my sisters sent me her latest writing, wanting a critique. It was a piece she'd entered in a contest and she was disappointed that it "didn't even get an honorable mention". Some of you might be equipped to critique a sibling's writing, but I'm not there yet. Even though I didn't figure out how to effectively help her with her story, my mind wasn't idle. This essay is the result of that conflict.

 Thoughts On Writing 

Writing is more than a handful of newly-sharpened pencils, an array of pens and a goodly supply of empty paper. It’s more than well-intentioned ideas that only exist on the walls of some of the rooms in our minds, forgotten when the shadows change; more than the few words scribbled here and there on junk mail envelopes and lost to decay when the envelopes are hastily trashed.

Writing is the idea of ideas, the art of art, the quintessential wellspring.

The writer, the keeper of this most sacred of talents, is charged with ingesting and digesting, with assimilating and extricating, with understanding and imparting the nuances and wisdoms of that understanding. The writer seduces the vast and rich bodies of knowledge in our collective spirits and, through this hallowed craft, leads the spirit of the reader into new, multi-dimensional worlds where collision, immersion and melding are the result.

We write of joys and farts, of train wrecks and blue jays, of ice cream and cast iron fry pans, of mother’s milk and super novas. We write to caress, enhance and widen the senses of the reader, ever issuing the challenge to embrace the thrust of knowledge.

Unless the words are written with loving care, the writer has no promise. Until the ideas are tenderly sculpted, the writer has no purpose. We must breathe our ideas of the universe and, setting them free to the winds, watch them grow roots strong enough to hold and frail enough to break into a new realm.

When we open ourselves to pursue the unknown, we necessarily and instinctively learn about the things we think we’ve already mastered. Deep within ourselves, we cull from the old and the new, developing and working with, from and into another paradigm.

What does all this mean to us as writers? Do we stand as sentinels, directing the thought patterns of generations? Do we determine the rights and wrongs of people through an artfully-woven sentence? No.

We, are merely humble custodians of words and thoughts. We chronicle. We put forth our best efforts. We pray our efforts will impact someone, somewhere. We serve.

crm 08/06