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| When Milton wrote Paradise Lost he was blind. He could not look at the words he had recorded on the page. Surely this was not as great an impediment as Beethoven faced when he composed his Ninth without the aid of his sense of hearing. Literature is a craft with only the necessity of a mind and imagination and some method of recording thoughts.
However, while I write this post, I can scan back and forth, searching for weak or incorrect prose, replacing and revising whatever I deem poor of quality. Milton could not. He composed his magnum opus by reciting the entire epic to a transcriber. And it is magnificent."Better to rule in hell than serve in heaven.": some of the most insight words in the history of the English language.
And so far anyone reading this can feel the fuzzies, an inspirational orgasm ready for climax. Too Bad!
Where is Milton now? Where the hell is an excellent believer, now? To find him you have to search back half a century. You have to see Lewis, Eliot and O'Connor. These lean and virile believers, these searchers of the deep heart of God are replaced with fattened and slothful snake-oil salesmen.
Modern believers write books that stalk readers like massively overweight aunt starved for affection, exploiting the bond of kinship to wrap their fleshy arms around a child relative. The embrace stifling, suffocating, unescapable. The flesh, the prosperity molding around the distinct form of the child, the rolls sealing the air passage until the child's starved lungs force his mouth open only to have the aunt fill his mouth with her flabby torso. Then in panic and disgust the child bites and tears himself away. The aunt shrieks and babbles until seeing the child's mother she spits out, "The little brute bit me. I never in all my life... Is this what you teach your children, Susan: to bite. I shouldn't wonder, the way you coddle and spoil the little demon."
Believers discard your "Six Steps to Serving God," your "How to Convince God to do what You Want," your "Feeling Happy all the Time Means You're a Good Christian" books, and look back to the sisters with eyes like razors, and the brothers with swords on their tongues. Look to Eliot, look to Milton, look to Donne, look to O'Connor. Or if you can wait a little while, you might be able to look to me. | | |
| I have been writing a long research paper on a famous author recently. Included in my research is his collected letters. I have found that quite a few of his words are misspelled, and quite a few of his sentences lack proper grammar.
I think he allowed this to happen because the letters were informal.
His novels and short stories were meticulously edited before coming to print.
Yet he misspelled words; he missed commas; I think he even had a few fragmented sentences in his letters.
In the humble opinion of this appreciative student, the letters of this writer are exceptional and a prime resource on what writing should be.
There are deeper streams than syntax.
Of course, it could be argued that, since I post on the internet, I am publishing to a large audience and should not regard my posts as letters, rather articles. I think that my audience of (maybe three) would be obliged to disagree. | | |
| What is it about writing that gives mere novices the notion that they are proficient?
It's frustrating. Anyone can hum a tune. Yet most understand that to be a musician takes a commitment to mastering the craft. The same with painting, or film, even photography. But writing, no writing is easy.
Well stick this in your pipes and smoke you bunch of posers. Writing well is HARD. You can't just pick it up and do it because you think you've got something to say. A writer can't be unversed in the history of the craft, unappreciative of grammar, or unaware of style and hope to succeed at writing.
And don't give me some crap about you being an innovator. If you don't know what the conventions are you aren't innovating; you're posing.
"I'm just a maverick. I follow my own rules."
Bull!
You are in love with the thought of being a deep and thoughtful writer without any sense of responsibility to craft.
Well you will end up being a deep and thoughtful insurance salesman, because your books will not sell. | | |
| I read an interesting article talking about how blogs are the anti-Orwellian. Instead of being unable to express ourselves, each of us is able to self-publish and broadcast over the whole globe. This supposedly paralyzes the free mind through over-absorbtion. Every Joe schmoe has a forum for even his most banal thoughts, leaving no distinction for gifted, or skilled communicators and ruining art and society.
I can see how this would be concerning knowing what little I do about sites like xanga and myspace. However, a method of distinction will always exist. It may require the sacfrifice of the publisher. But, the best will always find a way to gain distinction and be rewarded for it.
Just because a blog "is" does not mean it is read.
Case in point, this humble endeavor. | | |
| Where have all the cowboys gone?
And, what the hell is this site doing here?
It shouldn't be here.
It is a stupendous waste of time.
And yet it "is," kind of like a microcasm of the internet in general.
Chalkboard Bandit in the house yall! | | |
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