A man loomed down on, I sat somewhere in the grass and pewter, where it struck: it's supposed to pour, isn't it? I had, a few moments prior, opened yet another prematurely, a picaresque epic of character and detail (blurb), and the mammoth feat of its creation indicated to me a degree, at least, of pouring, the fingers straggling behind the furiously forming mind, the author the vessel for some divine though necessarily agnostic message. Not quite Alone in the Café, but drawing the perfect line between one's mind and one's surroundings so as to drink in just enough of the latter to fuel the former. That is, the point before revelation becomes distraction.
Many a would-be would be shot through with renewed vigour were they to peek at a first draft of anything in the canon, says theory. But would not they also realise, in one terrible moment, that inspiration can never circumvent Hard Work? There the fun rushes from their face and the doubts creep solemnly in: a flash that proves fruitless is still only a flash; months, years, that's where you want to be damn sure going in. It's supposed to bloody pour— I canvased this to erstwhile author Ben and was treated to a little of his insides.
"Listen, man, you can't be thinking about that kind of thoughts. You just got to write. It's fact. People who think don't write."
"Yeah, that's good, man, I get ya, but that's like theory — not really. It's theoretics. You can say write, and you said it, and thank you, but what does it actually mean in practice?"
"No no, it's got to be real straight-off. You've got to be thinking 'This is it' all the time, you dig? Not thinking thinking, just 'This is it'."
"I see, I see. But I don't quite get what you're getting at."
"Write, plain and simple."
"Write plain and simple?"
"Yes! Put it on paper, punch it. Get it down. You got me?"
"I got you. I just don't know what you mean."
This went on for some time before we both finally agreed that the best thing to do was do.
Let's say a wave of energy whose momentum needs not the p-promise of pay or prestige to proceed. Returning, as if from a dream, the feeling-guilty translateur denies authorship and claims to be little more than a go-between; the craftsman who has fought for every word wants credit for every word, too. Is there something better betwixt the two? The K-to-the-A-to-the-Other-Five-Letters, though busy at an autoclave, did find an answer: "Maybe." And so I stayed, the truth in my heart and the weather on my face.
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