Some of us have only words- pain, happiness, success, anguish, all eventually gets moulded into our words.But words are not just sounds with meanings in a language or mere marks on a blank page ,these are tricky monsters, they have the power to hypnotise the reader and dilute the writer.
Some of us can weave such a rich tapestry of words, that it is beyond any classification. The prose reads like poetry, the images are from this world but as if created afresh. They connect the blanks in everybody's story with their words.
The rest of us just write, mundane words about our mundane lives. Images that are stale, expressions over used. But we write too, as if creating a negligible background score for their blockbuster main pieces.
And then there are those who write only for themselves , no chronicle value ,no ambition, like a stray leave on a road on a particularly windy day.
Writing is a lonely art. Word by word the imagination and the heart have to be ripped apart to lay bare a picture for the reader to make sense of.
Is rain meaningless?
Why is meaning important?
Would a collection of words, without any meaning would still be writing?
Is slanting rain more meaningless than the straight conventional one?
what do places and people mean in a plot?
Is there a main plot and all of us trying to write sub-plots that match?
noise,noise,noise
reminds me of Faulkner
look at me
look at me
the crowd
and the lonely soul.
Some of us can weave such a rich tapestry of words, that it is beyond any classification. The prose reads like poetry, the images are from this world but as if created afresh. They connect the blanks in everybody's story with their words.
The rest of us just write, mundane words about our mundane lives. Images that are stale, expressions over used. But we write too, as if creating a negligible background score for their blockbuster main pieces.
And then there are those who write only for themselves , no chronicle value ,no ambition, like a stray leave on a road on a particularly windy day.
Writing is a lonely art. Word by word the imagination and the heart have to be ripped apart to lay bare a picture for the reader to make sense of.
Is rain meaningless?
Why is meaning important?
Would a collection of words, without any meaning would still be writing?
Is slanting rain more meaningless than the straight conventional one?
what do places and people mean in a plot?
Is there a main plot and all of us trying to write sub-plots that match?
noise,noise,noise
reminds me of Faulkner
look at me
look at me
the crowd
and the lonely soul.
