The Poetic Moment
I was feeling a bit melancholy this evening after a day of tying up loose ends and packing for our trip to camp, and after reading in my Hemingway biography about the suicide of Ernest's father Clarence. I was thinking of writing and how I never do it.
I looked out the window, but not really—only at the drapes which were drawn against the intensity of the evening sun hanging low in the western sky—and suddenly saw the delicate shadow of a dragonfly alight on the window outside. I saw the distinctive pattern on his wings. I should have liked to see him plainly, not merely a shadow of him through a cutain, but directly, as he truly was. But, of course, if I moved the drapes aside to see him face to face he would have been frightened away.
Such is my writing. So vivid and clear through the drapes of my mind, but when I try to confront it directly, to look at it face to face—it vanishes.
What you just wrote in this post IS your writing. So eloquent, clear and gripping...wanting one to see what is to come next. You have a gift and are using it. I know you want to do "more" but what you are giving us now is beautiful and thought provoking. I look forward to your posts, and someday, I will read your novels. You have a lot of time ahead of you, and now, you are doing what you can, and that's all one can do. Thank you for sharing your insights and observations of the world with all of us who are too "busy" to notice! Mom
Beautifully said! You underestimate yourself, my dear. You've the talent.