Writer's Bane

Writer’s Bane Why does one feel compelled to write – to place words on paper – words they fear to express aloud – words that have hovered in their psyche – words that begged their progenitor for a pardon; a release, if you will – a release that will never come – at least not fully formed, as conceived inside their brains. The transition between head to paper is often a slope to be slipped on, and almost all, find themselves brushing off their derrieres from the predictable fall. Words always squeeze out from under a cluttered mind and assail a skeptical world – a world ever vigilant against one who would assault their sensibilities or attack their long-held prejudices – a world, constant in their vigil against the wrong type of word, or infinitely more damning, the wrong type of thought that they dared scribble on the trunk of a dead tree. There is a modicum of comfort in erecting a shield against the squid-like squirming protoplasm who occupy our planet, and more importantly, have suborned our daily thoughts and turned any originator into a pliable jellyfish, floating through life, afraid to turn on a light in a darkened room and ultimately subsumed into an eternal nova, where all their contributions are forever lost. How many pages of unrecognized geniuses’ words are whirring about in a ubiquitous black hole? None-to-infinite seems reasonable to me. “The pen is mightier than the sword!” is whispered behind closed doors – closed minds, more like it – for all those who smell the miasmic odor that seeps off a writer’s paper will attest to the ineptness of the structure, or thought, or conclusion, no matter how beautiful the words, or how well they flow onto the parchment. They would sheathe the sword and blunt the edge of genius, reducing all to a common denominator; one who is devoid of cogency and totally unwilling to pursue a more placid path to success.