Sword or Cymbal

The swordsman’s blade becomes as if welded to his arm. The tennis-player commands the ball with her eye, and it speeds as if willpower alone directs it, not the precision of legs and arms and racquet and balance. Thus must the writer’s soul connect to the pen or tapping fingers.

A year ago, I would hope to capture in pastels or photos an essence of clouds, trees and distant hills, plagued always by a sense of detail which distracted from that essence.

Now I feel confident to conjure the effect in words alone. What is the desired effect? This is the mystery. How do I know what I want to say before I have found the words? Is some wordless tongue being spoken within me for which I seek the English? What goes on inside the artist---to know what will be conveyed before it has been made concrete and sensual? Sure, language is of the senses, or it cannot be conveyed.

There can be no style without something to say. Integrity matters. My words must map to some reality, inner or outer, or nothing will redeem them. If there is no necessity in my writing it will be lifeless. There must be love for my brothers and sisters and cousins in all the “kingdoms”---animal, vegetable, mineral.

“Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.”

[1 Corinthians 13:1]