Writing

I write best when I am desperate, frustrated, messed up and almost dying. Which is a good thing. It’s a very basic sort of paradox if something of substance can come out of such a mess. Not quite recycling, no.. This is some sort of bizarre catalysis. Do writers, poets and artists live in misery of their own making to foster their creativity or do their circumstances make them writers, poets and artists in the first place? Now that’s very pedestrian. If it were, in fact, so simple, then most of the world’s people are in reality brilliant writers, poets and artists just waiting to explode and exude talent. Why is it that the world never gets to be dazzled by their brilliance? Because not everyone lets off steam in the same way. So is that all that it is, after all? Letting off steam. And when the fog clears it leaves behind some sort of wondrous thought provoking creation which suggests extraordinary ability on the part of the creator. Is that the way it is, then?

The quality of writing is perhaps best measured by the effect it produces on the reader. No, not just the magnitude of effect, but the nature of the influence it can have. The slightest hint of a change in thought process is far more powerful than merely provoking disgust, revulsion or anger. Something that can make a person go “Hmmm” and stays in his or her mind, surfacing time and again, realigning the way he or she thinks about something or the other. That’s the power of writing. That’s where writing can result in more than just entertainment, and be more than just words.