(no subject)
I grow. That is a constant. And as I grow, I intake and divulge in and digest and eventually despise hundred of millions of words found suitable enough to be printed and presented to the masses. One who orders such chaos of words am I, however small my means of getting it the masses may be. As I grow, and read and analyze, one thing have grown enormously clear to me. Each writer, no matter how prolific or renowned, has sprinkled their texts with their favorite idiosyncrasies.
I would say, writers care for these tricks as child to its creators. But too hastily I say this, in that in the instance I present above I imply the ideals of a healthy co-dependent relationship. Truly, unless developed to a degree of seldom reached heights, an author more relies of their tricks an a drunk to their bottle, or a cripple to a crutch. Without their own walls of protection built by these idiosyncracies, they are naked, and unable to allow their work to parade under the scrutinizing masses. Without brash adjectives and useless phrases to run circles around the reader, a writer is left only with what they set out to tell.
I have not met nor heard of a writer yet, whose claims of not writing to fuel their own ego is backed by what I have read. I am however, still annoyed by authors such a Kurt Vonnegut or Dave Eggers who hide flaws inversely, by parading the flaws themselves clearly. Yet, I’d rather like to read their works that explain to the reader that their text is an illusion, then ignore that truth and boggle a reader enough to make them forget that what they are reading is all dressed up in lies.
I find that after addressing this, I have two choices: to metaphorically bury my pen and not again write a literary word, or, to except that to be succinct is not an method proven to bring greatness to the writer, and that lying through language is the only way to get a text read.
I have chosen, and can clearly make two statements not at all under the cover of language.
The first is that I am a writer.
The second, is that I am a liar.
I would say, writers care for these tricks as child to its creators. But too hastily I say this, in that in the instance I present above I imply the ideals of a healthy co-dependent relationship. Truly, unless developed to a degree of seldom reached heights, an author more relies of their tricks an a drunk to their bottle, or a cripple to a crutch. Without their own walls of protection built by these idiosyncracies, they are naked, and unable to allow their work to parade under the scrutinizing masses. Without brash adjectives and useless phrases to run circles around the reader, a writer is left only with what they set out to tell.
I have not met nor heard of a writer yet, whose claims of not writing to fuel their own ego is backed by what I have read. I am however, still annoyed by authors such a Kurt Vonnegut or Dave Eggers who hide flaws inversely, by parading the flaws themselves clearly. Yet, I’d rather like to read their works that explain to the reader that their text is an illusion, then ignore that truth and boggle a reader enough to make them forget that what they are reading is all dressed up in lies.
I find that after addressing this, I have two choices: to metaphorically bury my pen and not again write a literary word, or, to except that to be succinct is not an method proven to bring greatness to the writer, and that lying through language is the only way to get a text read.
I have chosen, and can clearly make two statements not at all under the cover of language.
The first is that I am a writer.
The second, is that I am a liar.