I used to write, once. Then, I dreamed about being a writer and I would write about almost anything and everything. Naïve exuberance they called it, then when I was a writer. There was a time that once I had started writing nothing could stop me until I poured out all of my soul and self completely. Anything was possible and there where no mistakes to be worried about, because I was writing for myself.
I had once heard that a good writer just picks up his pen and writes, the rest they say would become clearer as the pages pile up; which is kind of how I wrote my first book.
Though there a few of my colleagues that choose to take the more pragmatic approach, they insist on having the plot first before the story, a bit mechanical if you ask me, but well such is the life that they have chosen. You may have seen some of them, you know, the ones who go to the same restaurants, sit on the same chair and eat the same food.
To some, there is only one way of doing things, unanimous in one thing, the absolute of no choices and zero alternatives. Well, like I said, I used to be a writer once, the last bastion of true human freedom and creativity is not easily shackled unless you want it to.
Where indeed God’s word comes true that says “Ye are gods” because you can create a world and be anything you want it to be, or you can choose not to use your gift and allow not your mind wander to the artistic and creative and thus limit yourself to the mundane and structure of an already existing society. Purpose sometimes gives the writing life, or in an irony of itself takes it away.
Some write because that is their way, it is usually like this in the beginning, but then come the deadlines, the agendas, the kids and a mortgage. Suddenly you have a lifestyle you want to protect, and then you write whatever you need to write to protect it. Do you still decide the world you want to create or does your publisher now do that for you? Is it now about what is acceptable or about what is?
In a bid to be more commercial some may trade in the last stronghold of human freedom; their will and right to choose.
So, in the end as I lay- I leave this in memory of true incorrigible writ, and I hope it takes you farther than it did me.
