Every writer wishes he was a painter or musician. Our art lies mutely in black on white. Our craft is silent, incapable of screaming or crescendo. It is visually discreet. Our audience does not simply proclaim, with little more than a glance, “hmmm… Well I don’t know what it is or what it is trying to say, but it’s beautiful, magnificent really. I know just the sport in the den for this piece.”
Or, “The band can really wale, let’s pick up their CD and play it this weekend for the barbeque.”
No.
Words on a page, or rather the worlds being created via those words, are only as accessible as the minds trained upon them. In essence without readers who have the skills to comprehend the vernacular, the intention, the intonations, they are nothing more than ink on a page.
Paintings get a double take, admiration for hours by educated and novice alike. Musicians can turn up the amplifiers and make their point with volume. They get noticed, they get felt, and their art spills out there into the world by means which capture their audience.
For writers, we have nothing without RE
ADERS. The world needs more of them.
Or, “The band can really wale, let’s pick up their CD and play it this weekend for the barbeque.”
No.
Words on a page, or rather the worlds being created via those words, are only as accessible as the minds trained upon them. In essence without readers who have the skills to comprehend the vernacular, the intention, the intonations, they are nothing more than ink on a page.
Paintings get a double take, admiration for hours by educated and novice alike. Musicians can turn up the amplifiers and make their point with volume. They get noticed, they get felt, and their art spills out there into the world by means which capture their audience.
For writers, we have nothing without RE
ADERS. The world needs more of them.
