Friday, August 4, 2017

How does one write like this? I ask myself.

I am sitting in a dusty place. The day has passed like a cloud over the sky. Everywhere the rain has dampened the world and made a rivulet or two in the ground for the grasses to skip over. Pale light flicks a tongue into the room.

I have been reading Avram Davidson all day -in between writing. Mum was supposed to arrive but refused. I will pick her up tomorrow. The stomach bug has ended.

There are problems. Of course there are always problems. Life is one continuous problem.  In the end the only definition of life is problem series.

The beauty of writing is that we can take the problem series and make out of it stories. Once we have these stories written, we feel differently--as if the saying and writing of these events made real the horror and our survival of the horror.

Then from horror, we might progress to a new place. The place where I am now where I am in a dusty room reading Avram Davidson.

I read Avram Davidson because he steps from one world to the next world--in multiplicity without any sort of effort and I am running breathless behind him trying to keep up.

How does one write like this? I ask myself.
I don't know.
It's as if a very great intelligence is pushing out pseudopodia of investigations into these stories and revealing the great heart of the man.
I mean a great writer is a great heart. And a great soul.
I don't believe that anyone can just write great stuff without being great themselves.

I think you can be grumpy, horrid with other and yet --if inside you there is a pulsating heart and a blue soul like the sky without the mottled grey and black clouds on it--well then the writing will show this sort of vividness--will prove your interior by external expression.

When I read Avram Davidson, I am made wider in the circumference. I feel his heart and soul.
And I wonder again--How the heck does one write like this? 

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