Reading Myself

"As I read this poem, I picture an artist. In order for this artist to bring about his art, he must focus on things or subjects that he is passionate about. He is not an artist who can write and epic from the gentle and fleeting feelings that arise from smelling a flower or stubbing a toe. He knows all of the technical aspects or the art of writing by heart. Despite his knowing the technical aspects of writing to a level of mastery, he has never been able to create something of great importance to be contributed to what he has memorized. Thus far, he has only been able to create works that, although they are good according to the rules of writing, they do not breathe; none of his work is alive; his works are all “wax flowers.” Yet, without this base of works that are correct according to the rules of writing as a foundation, no great piece of original work can be born from this artist. The hope of the artist is to give birth to the work that will live long enough to be enjoyed by others even after the artist himself has died." by autumnweldon. This is a blog I read on line because I wasn't sure if anyone was thinking anything similar to me. It is like people who have the technical knowledge of doing things, but they never feel like they are doing something good. It is never quality because it is never real. It doesn't live with emotion which is why I think he only made it to the smaller hills of Parnassus. The things he does are technically good, but they are not emotionally satisfying. This is like writing for me. I know technically how to make it "good" writing, but it is never going to be like Cormac McCarthy or Zora Neale Hurston because I don't know how to write well. I am not a borne writer even though I try. I like this poem a lot. I think everyone can relate in some way to this and everyone knows that inadequate feeling and that feeling of disappointment.