A Literary Night

Writing on a Serene Friday Night

Writing on a Serene Friday Night

In the beginning was the word, the word

That from the solid bases of the light

Abstracted all the letters of the void;

And from the cloudy bases of the breath

The word flowed up, translating to the heart

First charactes of birth and death.

Dylan Thomas, “In the Beginning”

As the temperatures drop this Friday evening, I’m finding myself more in a literary mood than a painting one.  On the TV plays “Finding Forrester”–one of my favorite movies starring Sean Connery. The memorable quotes are endless as he discusses the writer’s craft:

You write your first draft with your heart; you rewrite with your head.  The first key to writing is writing.

I am taking him at his word.  The coffeepot is on.  Books are stacked next to me.  The journal is open.  Pencils are sharpened.  Soft music plays.  And I’m ready to let unbridled thought run its course tonight.  Throughout my life, I’ve spent many nights in this mode, only there was a sermon to compose, a lecture to write, or a lesson plan to develop.  What is nice about tonight is that I don’t report to my job until Monday morning–until then, I have no deadlines, no objectives.  I am free to think, to write, to compose what I feel.  I wonder now, why don’t I arrange to have more times like this?  My calendar should be under my command, not vice versa.  Maybe this is the turn, the beginning of a new direction.  I like the open-ended feel of this.

When you write, you lay out a line of words.  The line of words is a miner’s pick, a wood-carver’s gouge, a surgeon’s probe. You wield it, and it digs a path you follow.  Soon you find yourself deep in new territory.

Annie Dillard, The Writing Life

Thanks for reading.

I paint in order to remember.

I journal when I feel alone.

I blog to remind myself that I am not alone.

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