~Poet. Author. Acolyte of language and nuance.
Writing is a craft, a drive, a passion.
Sometimes it’s a pure rush and then a shredding of the evidence.
Of all the things I love about poetry — brevity. Irony. When used well, articulate, it inflames our incapacity to explain the spaces between words, yet touches our liberty.
As far as fiction, within words, between worlds, there is always a story … discovering the truth within the tale, the heartbeat of a legend, the slivers of Life — or dance of death — in flick-of-an-eye details. (Though it often morphs into poetry like this one did.)
Sophie Marceau said it well…
“It’s so attractive, too attractive. Your writing becomes more real than your reality….writing is the act of creation. Writing is dangerous.”
Coupled with Colette’s caveat…
“Sit down and put down everything that comes into your head and then you’re a writer. But an author is one who can judge his own stuff’s worth, without pity, and destroy most of it.”
And Emily Bronte’s eloquence…
“I have dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas: they’ve gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the colour of my mind.”
But after all is written, and continues to be written, sometimes Rilke whispers… “Things aren’t all so tangible and sayable as people would usually have us believe; most experiences are unsayable; they happen in a space that no word has ever entered,…mysterious existences, whose life endures beside our own small, transitory life.”
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