I am not a good writer. I cannot be.
This is what I want to say. I write because it is cathartic. I am pained when I do not compose. My artistic event is ecstatic and I produce good content, yet my grammar and mechanics can be off. What do I do? Do I seek the community of other authors? Sure I do. Do I take classes and read books? Of course I must. However I do none of this currently. I am too preoccupied by the concerns of a human. I have heard so many people say "I want to write... but...". This terrifies me.
My first novel was my baby. Ugly babies are still beautiful to their parents. "The Poet of Future Myth" is not an ugly baby. It is very premature.
When I wrote as a younger man, I discovered the pleasure of composing something unique. An expression of my own understanding. I started with poetry. All of my early writings were experimental and I fancied innovative form over the classic or standard. As I obtained my undergraduate degree in English, I learned the value of classical forms and I obtained a taste for the standards of formal, effective, and powerful expression of what were universal ideals. What Freud could say for the psychic had been said centuries before in the form of drama, poetry, and rhetoric.
So I have written a novel which I feel is premature. The final edit is forthcoming. The paperback is pennies away from print. Yet because I do not have community with other authors, I sense that my work is somehow disconnected from the only people who can actually appreciate the process. And the passion within that process. And more than this, the distinct style and voice which only those who have the imagination of the creative event could recognize upon reading my work. This is tragic. This is the demise of great minds who otherwise could be representative of the progress of the discourse on aesthetics, canon, and pedagogical concerns such as SRTOL, First-Year Composition, and discourse communities in fact. I am not writing to express a grievance, but a grief.
Authors of ideas have a like sensibility of a need to be heard, an excitement at the prospect of expounding upon their ideas once read. What comes of an author, or worse yet, a poet who in the act of composing attains levels of ecstasy at this prospect, and no one ever knows? That is the main thrust of my first novel "The Poet of Future Myth".
What I attempt to accomplish is the humiliation of such persons who cannot accept the fate of being mediocre. Poets have lost favor in our day. We seek the points of the scientist. But Pointillism (Chromoluminarism) could never capture the endurance of a beautiful string of words which illuminate. Humanity will never achieve the peace which was once spoken and then sung by the lips of parent to child, lover to beloved, and teacher to student.
This is what I want to say. I write because it is cathartic. I am pained when I do not compose. My artistic event is ecstatic and I produce good content, yet my grammar and mechanics can be off. What do I do? Do I seek the community of other authors? Sure I do. Do I take classes and read books? Of course I must. However I do none of this currently. I am too preoccupied by the concerns of a human. I have heard so many people say "I want to write... but...". This terrifies me.
My first novel was my baby. Ugly babies are still beautiful to their parents. "The Poet of Future Myth" is not an ugly baby. It is very premature.
When I wrote as a younger man, I discovered the pleasure of composing something unique. An expression of my own understanding. I started with poetry. All of my early writings were experimental and I fancied innovative form over the classic or standard. As I obtained my undergraduate degree in English, I learned the value of classical forms and I obtained a taste for the standards of formal, effective, and powerful expression of what were universal ideals. What Freud could say for the psychic had been said centuries before in the form of drama, poetry, and rhetoric.
So I have written a novel which I feel is premature. The final edit is forthcoming. The paperback is pennies away from print. Yet because I do not have community with other authors, I sense that my work is somehow disconnected from the only people who can actually appreciate the process. And the passion within that process. And more than this, the distinct style and voice which only those who have the imagination of the creative event could recognize upon reading my work. This is tragic. This is the demise of great minds who otherwise could be representative of the progress of the discourse on aesthetics, canon, and pedagogical concerns such as SRTOL, First-Year Composition, and discourse communities in fact. I am not writing to express a grievance, but a grief.
Authors of ideas have a like sensibility of a need to be heard, an excitement at the prospect of expounding upon their ideas once read. What comes of an author, or worse yet, a poet who in the act of composing attains levels of ecstasy at this prospect, and no one ever knows? That is the main thrust of my first novel "The Poet of Future Myth".
What I attempt to accomplish is the humiliation of such persons who cannot accept the fate of being mediocre. Poets have lost favor in our day. We seek the points of the scientist. But Pointillism (Chromoluminarism) could never capture the endurance of a beautiful string of words which illuminate. Humanity will never achieve the peace which was once spoken and then sung by the lips of parent to child, lover to beloved, and teacher to student.
