Monday Morning Musings

I've been thinking about my grandmother and imagination the last few days. Sounds like a weird combination doesn't it? But my grandmother had this knack for creating the most lovely doilies with thread and a crochet hook. Believe me, there is a definite knack to being able to spin those threads into an actual thing of beauty. I learned how to make hats and scarves with my crochet hook and yarn, but that's pretty much my limit and believe me there's no artistry involved in making squares that become warm winter hats.

My grandmother, on the other hand, could sit for hours creating these beautiful designs, tossing in color after color until with a final snip of her scissors, the design was complete and breathtakingly beautiful. Words are that way.

One writer can sit down and weave a very capable and publishable story with his words. The story, like my hat and scarf is serviceable but there's no actual art involved, no real beauty in the words, just an ordinary story that pleases the audience its aimed for. And this is a good thing, being able to satisfy your readers is what a writers strives for.

And yet, another writer can take those very same words and weave a story that will take your breath away. And perhaps that's the difference between the profession of writing and the art of writing. You need the same basic writing skills to do both, but the art comes from deep inside a writer, from a place that frees inhibitions and allows the writer to go one step beyond his skills into something more.

One is not better than the other, they both require the same skills. The level where they change is how much of the writer is poured into the story, how much he allows his imagination the freedom to explore the possibilities, to take that one step beyond a serviceable story. To use a cliche, perhaps the true art comes from how much the writer allows himself to bleed onto the page.