Thoughts on Writing

Writing is intimate. It is art on a good day and maybe a glimpse into my soul, my persona, what moves and motivates me, or the belly button lint I am unraveling for the day. I’ve seen that in the works of others who I read consistently, the person who occasionally slips in. They are the shadow lurking in the back of the room, only noticed because you happened to glance up at just the right angle and see them. It isn’t much, just a hint, because art, whatever the medium, isn’t about the person creating. It is about the reflection of the something greater that the artist has received and their expression of that. I used to think only great writers had that ability. Continue Reading →