Monday, December 21, 2009
Colossus of Ink
Sometimes I sit with my muse and let him pour me a drink as I brood over what needs to be done. Rewrites and edits, hack and slash, cuts and slices, but also bandages and poultices, tinctures and medicines, fresh scenes and requests for amputations.
It is never sterile but dirty work that must be prodded with a hot poker and excised with the realization of the pain if it isn't done right. It will infect and fester, laziness growing gangrenous. Fingers racing about the letter board like a fencers duel always jabbing, poking, stabbing to get the words out that will last, that will mean something when you come back to them later or at the least let you remember what it was so you can do it all over again.
If the muse does not serve you well he (or she) must be replaced with another, whether a better host or hostess to ideas or a sparing partner they must forever push you to go farther and improve upon the craft. Each bout must be a little harder to beat, each round produce more muscle, every tournament attain the indomitable, all contests won. The eternal progression forever traveling. All experiences are for your good. Colossus of ink-write on.