I love to write,
and these days, it's virtually all done via the keyboard.
But writing it is:
Words, phrases, paragraphs -
always amazing to me how things flow, or not ...
how the right word at the wrong place,
or the wrong word at the right place,
So, try it again ...
add a new word,
play with the old,
reposition, eliminate, add, twist and bend the sentence,
the paragraph ... like clay in a sculpture's hand - squeeze and push and shape and change ...
And with a little luck, or grace, or mercy.
Something takes shape.
An idea is expressed.
Or a good joke.
Or just plain silliness.
Or a matter of life and death.
History and philosophy.
Or maybe a recipe.
Two cups of milk and some flour.
Some oregano and thyme.
Or a cry for justice.
A prayer for peace.
A tear for a family's loss.
Or maybe just a rant and a rave.
When complaint seems to be the only recourse.
The only thing that makes sense.
Because a rant and a rave still shed light on the issue.
This is the reason we're in trouble.
This is the problem.
We don't always have to solve it.
But examine it we must.
From every angle
Like a good detective holding a piece of evidence.
From whence did it come?
Who put it there?
What did it do?
If not who, then how?
And maybe the idea will sparkle a bit.
Maybe the Word will again become flesh.
And dwell among us.
Is not this the goal of every writer?
I think so.
That the word would become flesh.
And maybe, just maybe, we could see some glory.
I love to write.