Wednesday, May 6, 2009
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An eclectic mix of what crosses my path and tickles my mind.
We are afraid of writing, even those of us who love it. And there are parts of it we hate. The necessary mess, the loss of control, its ability to betray us, as well as the possibility that what we write might be lousy...
Our horror of spontaneous emission and our obsession with perfection make us mute. We want beauty so badly we're speechless...
A writer's concentration is not only like mercy, it is mercy, mercy towards oneself. It is allowing imperfection. It is allowing mess. Even what stinks must be allowed into one's heaven... Bar the lowly, and no one worthwhile will enter. Accept, and a teeming crowd appears, a whole mixed multitude of beggars and billionaires, quiet louts and loudmouth saints.
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