Write Again … To be so talented
Over the years, many, many years now, there have been times when I dared to think that I, even I, just might be capable of writing a novel.
Wishful thinking. Even just a little objectivity tells me it’s not going to happen. Not ever.
Why so, you might ask. Or not.
Well. I’ll tell you anyway. For starters, I haven’t the talent. Nor the intellect or industriousness required to write something so ambitious as a novel. Such a personal evaluation is definitely not false modesty. Just the simple truth.
Because I feel so blessed to love to read — and do so almost voraciously as does my Incomparable First Wife — how could I not realize that I simply don’t have what it takes? My reading provides great fulfillment, but almost always serves to reinforce my awareness of my inadequacies as a writer. ‘Tis true.
However, I believe I do recognize the real talents, abilities, many authors possess. More importantly, I relish their literary skills. The written word, done well, is such a joy to we who love to read.
Enough preamble. More than enough.
Let me now share with you just a little of the talents of a real writer. The following is from “Where the Crawdads Sing” by Delia Owens:
“As she rounded a stand of tall grass, suddenly the ocean’s face — gray, stern, and pulsing —frowned at her. Waves slammed one another, awash in their own white salvia, breaking apart on the shore with loud booms — searching for a beachhead. Then they flattened into quiet tongues of foam, waiting for the next surge.”
And this: “His dad had told him many times that the definition of a real man is one who cries without shame, reads poetry with his heart, feels opera in his soul, and does what’s necessary to defend a woman.”
Ah. To be such a man.
Then this one last snippet of her writing gift: “She danced among the pale wings of mayflies, fluttering above the bright moon-mud.”
Just a taste of the word/thought buffet from the pen of Delia Owens. A real writer.
APROPOS — “A great book should leave you with many experiences, and slightly exhausted at the end. You live several lives while reading it.”
— William Styron (1958)