Wordsmith

[I have loved writing for most of my 48 years. Like many things closest to us, we sometimes take for granted that which we hold dear. I have recently renewed my relationship with writing and have loved the second honeymoon! I must give thanks to my friends who have helped in the renewal. Having said that, I've been pondering over the craft of writing...]

One of the finest compliments a writer can receive is to refer to him or her as a "wordsmith." Like an athlete "in the zone," this conjures up images of the great ones and allows the newly great or someday great to feel hope and confidence.

I've been pondering over this word and as I did so, it struck me....

I have an uncle who is a blacksmith. Really. He lives in the country and creates glorious works of art in his shop- with heat, anvil and iron. And his eye for creating beauty from those simple things. From his dark sweat and grime emerge light and beauty. His works are sold at fine art places and the finest hotel shops along the east coast. He doesn't make horse shoes, he creates fireplace sets and kitchen hangings and beautiful pieces to grace a home and make it a more pleasant place to be. He twists and pulls the iron to milk every ounce of beauty from its simple strength. He evokes beauty from simplicity.

So it is with a wordsmith. From the simple and plain he extracts the beautiful and evocative. He has no need of verbosity or the ornate language of those who write to impress. He stretches and pulls and twists and wrestles with the words and brings forth a well-crafted sentence- and evocative paragraph- a thought-provoking idea. The key is the eye and the ability to forge the simple into the lovely. A turn of phrase. A spectacular image. A thought which demands an even greater thought from the reader.

Let us, as writers, make beauty from simplicity. Let us twist and wrestle and heat up our language that it might take on a new life in the mind of a reader. Let us forge spectacular, heart-stopping beauty from the lovely simplicity all around us. Let us be wordsmiths.

Write the Love

My friend the writer, who, without malice or even intent, inadvertently puts writers such as I in their place with his vivid portrayals of passion and love, leads a life seemingly filled with drama, excitement and intrigue. He sweeps ladies off their feet and gallantly rides in on his pony of passion to elicit romance known only to those few who brave the waters of torrid love and lingering lust.

I commented to him on my perception of the the excitement of his life and, what I was mistakenly feeling was the boredom of my own. I write, for goodness sake, about apple cake!! (See earlier post- if you dare.....) In his kind and gentle reply, as he has done so many times before, he provided sage advice: "Write what you see. That’s all I do. I write what I see. You see it. You can write to record it. Or you can write to right its wrong."

Right now, in my life, I see love. I feel love, and, I hope, I radiate love. I've decided, at least for today, I'm going to write the love.

I love my small town, which cradles me in its arms and helps me feel safe and happy. I love the nip in the air in the mornings as we take our walks and take in - not see- not view- but try to take in the raw and expansive beauty of the mountains, the river and the daily dynamic of clouds and mists and sunshine which act as an ever-changing lens on the beauty of this region.

I love this time of year, when as my wife said yesterday on our walk, "The breezes tickle Autumn right through your clothes and into you." Some leaves already explode with color and beauty as they signal their oncoming drift into another phase of life. The wind aids them as they cavort with one another, playing tag and footsie in the trees, savoring this resplendent time of love and life and beauty.

And I love, oh how I love, my family. They provide me daily with joy unbridled and soft peeks of the eternal happiness awaiting. They lift me up and praise me and help me through the rough times of doubt and discouragement. They love me when I'm most unlovable.

I live a short five minute walk from my work, so my family is never far away. Just today, my 15 year old daughter came up to hear an author speak at the University's weekly forum. He was funny and inspirational, and Kathryn and I shared a father/daughter time of joy and happiness as he signed the newly purchased books from two of his newest fans. Joseph and I share an evolving set of father/son bonds. Kicking the soccer ball used to suffice; now we need talks about things and jobs and girls and life. Those talks are often short, arising just after negotiating who will be driving to our next destination, but they are poignant, and, frankly, what a father longs for. And Granger, our 8 year old, brings me such deep joy and love each day. He is a spark to our smolder, a breeze to our doldrums and a purpose to our drift. We all love him so, and that love brings a greater unity to every other aspect of our family. And the joy, love and pride I feel for our exceptionally wonderful 23 year old, Elizabeth, is immense. She teaches special needs children and is not unaccustomed to coming home from work with bite marks or bruises. The love she feels for her work and her students is inspiring, and I'm sure it will be evidenced in her interactions with everyone she meets throughout her life.

Finally there is Sharlet, my wife. She has been by my side for almost 26 years, and has stood by me through the storms of life and the inherent drama of international moves, part time graduate studies, late in life doctoral studies and the myriad of tests and complications which make a 26 year relationship a 26 year relationship. She is my rock, my anchor. She brings me home- not with a look of distaste or a harsh word, but merely with a soft touch or knowing glance of love. Recently she and I have discovered the joys of text messaging, and it is truly thrilling to feel my heart skip just a bit at the sound of a new message from her. She holds my soul in her hand and has the power to do so many things to it. But her choice- and this says so much about her- is to sweetly, quietly and gently adore it and hold it to her breast.

She is the mother of our 4 amazing children. She has raised them to be wonderful souls who serve those around them, and seek to leave every person they meet a bit better, whether it be by a gentle greeting, a small act of service, or even a kind look which can say so much. Her motherhood has dropped the pebble in the pond of familial joy from which the circles will spread for generations.

When my shortsightedness brings darkness to my life and our lives, she is the light which remains, unwavering, ready to reach out and console and love and cherish. I cannot describe the debts I owe to her nor her willingness to waive all debt that we might simply enjoy life as two who act as one. We are united in life and love, and therein is my truest joy.

I feel so blessed and privileged to be living this life right now. Of course there are problems and concerns- but the love emanating from our marriage and home is a force not to be ignored. Today, it is one to be praised and written of. Please pardon what some may consider sappy ramblings. I love sap. I live for sap. For me, right now, sap is love and life and home. I may not be able to write drama and sexual intrigue, but I can sure try my very best to write the love.

On Being "A Writer"

The question of what exactly constitutes being "a writer" crops up with dramatic consistency amongst those who write. One can only imagine the Eagle and Child on Thursdays at 11:00, with Lewis, Tolkien, and the other Inklings pondering and debating the very same. So what does it mean to be...."a writer?"

I think, like most true answers, this one comes from within. If the state of being a writer is allowed to be bequeathed by those external to one's self, it will eternally come and go as the tide or the moon, waxing and waning in the spotlight of the uninitiated. It will be as ephemeral as the good wishes in a receiving line or the political cause du jour.

If, however, one draws a sense of self and "writerhood" from within, it becomes a state which means more than just a status- more than the transient dusty robes of academe- more than the whimsy of the Times critic or the inking sanctions of an overwhelmed editor. To be a writer, one must deign to acknowledge, first and foremost to self, that writing is what breathes air into tired lungs, sweeps the cobwebs from a mind thick of spreadsheets and reports, and fills the soul with a vibrance and awareness that comes only through the written word. A good wrestle to find the "mot juste" becomes a welcomed workout- not a distasteful labor in language. And, upon finally seeing that well-crafted, neatly polished and timelessly immortal sentence, a writer knows that the hours of paper balls or backspaces have been well worth the effort. Even if no one else ever sees it.

A writer writes- not just for others- but so he or she can breathe.
copyright @2008

Cartharsis

I taught creative writing for years and years, and always encouraged students to continue to write and to journal. It's amazing how we don't take our own advice sometimes. It's also amazing, as I told my students so many times, the power of putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard and just getting it out. There's something about the process that allows you to peel the layers from that onion in order to see and say what is innermost in your heart. I already feel so much better. Thank you to my friends who have led me here. Your blogs have touched me deeply, and I hope mine may reciprocate somehow.