I've been doing a little writing lately (including this post, I guess). Several years ago, while in grad school, my fellow students and I were asked to jot down what we wanted to accomplish in the next 10 years. I boldly stated on the little blue 3x5 that was being passed out that I wanted to write a book. 18 years have come and gone...bupkis...maybe I'm a late bloomer. I do keep finding myself passing Barnes and Nobles (that are not on the way home) and browsing various religious selections, scrutinizing a few of the authors' thought processes.
My conclusion? There are lots of people that have some very profound things to say...and apparently lots who have nothing to say but (like me I suppose) really wanted to write a book. "Cool cover" I whisper to myself, not wanting to be overly critical since I've never been published and feel under-qualified to think little of anyone else's work. For the most part I find myself pretty impressed by such an undertaking. There is an elegant beauty to writing. To organize thoughts and carefully craft them with words so that those reading can almost taste and smell the surroundings of the colloquial environment being set...amazing!
Like a skilled pastry chef who conjures mouth-watering creations for the palate...or a painter who creates colorful landscapes from the palette, the writer can compose a word-symphony that dances in the mind of the reader and drives home a point or perhaps provides an escape from the seemingly pointless. This is a great skill, I think. I admire those who do it well and am in their debt. Lately I've been, quite literally "trying my hand at it". If someone will hand me a little blue 3x5, maybe I can set a goal for the next 10 years