Yesterday I introduced you to a library book I checked out that has set my mind smoking. I will not be the judge of the quality of my thoughts, but will gladly let you peer into the workings of a brain on books.
Drink deep? From where? When I find a great source, I’ll let you know. So far, this book is one of the finest, that has unleashed a torrent of finger punching on my laptop keyboard.
Writing is a solitary endeavor, much like reflecting on your image in a puddle. It frames the writer and reader in different ways. The writer, while close, cannot see the whole landscape. The reader, at an advantage, can zoom in or zoom out from the words, as if sitting on a binocular’s focusing dial. The writer has to step away from the paper, pencil and thoughts, to digest, and return to edit and fine tune the thoughts and words on paper.
Am I any good? My inner critic forces perfection and never sees the flower for the weeds. I can write volumes, yet all the praise in the world cannot keep me as warm as the embers of burning paper.
I write and turn in shock to find somebody understands and likes it. Happiness is a fickle friend. I know I still am not a poet or writer. My soul screams “Be satisfied!” To be continued…