Something interesting happened last night. I was hanging out at a friend of a friend's place, and I discovered a novel by one Mark Helprin, titled Winter's Tale. I read a single passage: a short, one-page chapter somewhere in the middle of the book. The author had written about the mysteries and magic of the universe and our existence.
What struck me was how damned good the prose was. The writing was so compact and economical. Each word was perfect. He said what he wanted to say in exactly the number of words it required. No more, no less.
I was thoroughly impressed, and it sparked in me that old desire -- the desire to do something great. That's part of the reason why we write. Or act. Or draw. Or paint. Whether admitted to or not, there's a desire to do something noteworthy and great. Something deserving of recognition. Something to be remembered. That desire was rekindled in me.
It's part jealousy. I'm not sure if I could ever meet that standard of prose-writing. If I could, it would take me a hell of a long time to ever climb that summit. But one can always try. Give it the ol' college try.
Long story short, it made me go back to my old writing and even rediscover this blog. I remember when the words used to come so easily. I used to be able to sit down in front of the TV with a good, gel pen and a legal pad, and be able to just spit out fragments or passages. Now I wonder how much work and concentration it would require. I feel like my creativity has atrophied, and that thought bothers me. I'm disturbed by the fact that I allowed it to happen to myself. I blame only myself for letting work consume my life...
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