The Writer's Gift

As I watched a local school chorus on the news today, I made a mental connection between those many voices and how they blend together, and it made me think about writers.

I am not a particularly good writer. I write as I speak. Sometimes I throw in a few phrases and words that I don't normally use, but for the most part, what you read is how I am. I have no formal training, and I don't know the ‘rules' of putting together the story to make anything more rich and enticing. I enjoy immensely, the works that I read in Gather by so many of the very talented writers of prose and poetry.

No doubt, the high school chorus includes a range of the very talented and promising artists, to the borderline singers who may never achieve more than participation status. And so it is for those of us in Gather. Some of us are great, some, not so much so. But we participate. We lend our voices to the chorus.

I would like to say too, that, in my opinion, the writer has much more of a chance to bring the beauty within their craft to their readers than perhaps a portrait artist might be able to do. You can look at a Georgia O'Keefe painting and see a poppy, or a photograph by Ansel Adams view of El Capitan, but a writer can bring more depth to your mind by describing the color, texture and temperature of those said images.

Do writers see a different world than the rest of us? Do they look for, and find, the small details? This week I have seen the same alley described by three different people, with each of them bringing to the written piece their feelings and personal history. To me, all were equally well written, as I am not a connoisseur but rather a person who partakes of the printed feast.

I am here to learn. To enjoy. To write.

CJW © 2006

Writers Anonymous: A 3 Step Program

[Step One: Resentment]
Hi, My name is Quentin.
I'm a write-a-holic.
I can't control it, can't curb
the urge to write.
I need help.
I want my life back.

[Step Two: Commitment]
I write poems on fast food napkins,
with toothpicks, using ketchup for ink.
I jot ideas for poems
on my arms and legs. When I run out of space,
I use my shoes.
I make motions
similar to Michael Jackson's moonwalk
when I need to erase.

I make up stories
while making love to my wife.
She left me. Who needs her?
She was suffocating my creativity.

I await submission replies
like an addict, hands trembling,
head shaking in disbelief.
Not another bout with rejection!
I'm manic depressive.
I'm happy to be here.
No I'm not.

I live for revision.
Instead of sex, I have poems.
I eat feedback.

[Step 3: Contentment]
As a recovering write-a-holic,
admitting my problem
has provided a much needed catharsis.
Joining this nurturing group has

(Excuse me,
but are you going to throw away that paper cup?
That's good paper!)

taught me to reconcile my past
and move forward.

c.QBH