Write a song
Write a song about the very song you sing
Pen a line about a line within a line
Write a song about a song.
Think a thought
Think a thought about the very thought you think
Hold a pen and write a line about the ink
Think a thought about a thought.
Live a life
Live a life that is the life you want to live
Give a gift that you will always give
God knows fear is not afraid.
Write a song
Write a song about the very song you sing
And when your rhymes do not apply to anything
Write a song about a song.
John Fullbright, Write a Song, from the album ‘Songs‘
I’ve been asked why I bother to keep this blog when it has limited readership and I make nothing from it. For that matter, I’ve sometimes asked myself that question. But when I do, I don’t ask myself the part about the money for I already know that answer. Upon reflection, it turns out that the answer to the money portion of the question is related to the answer about why I bother.
I don’t care about the money.
Actually, that isn’t an honest answer. I care very much about receiving no money at all, since the lack leaves me free to write what I want when I want, without having to pander to anyone – sponsors, convention, or even you, the reader. Having no receipts permits me to remain free – unfettered by the chains of another’s expectations, unimpoverished from having to seek to please.
What I care about is writing in a public forum – even one with such limited readership. For doing so means I must try my best each time I publish. And if, in doing so, I satisfy someone’s itch to read, if I pen a line that someone wishes to copy and keep, if I give someone a moment’s satisfaction, if I cause someone to say internally “that’s right!”, then I am satisfied – but only for as long as it takes the reader to react. In the words of E. B. White:
“I suppose a writer, almost by definition, is a person incapable of satisfaction – which is what keeps him at his post. Let us just say that I have tidied up my desk a bit, and flung out a few noisy and ill-timed farewells, like a drunk at a wedding he is enjoying to the hilt and has no intention of leaving.” (“Foreward,” Second Tree From the Corner as quoted on page 210 of In The Words of E. B. White, Martha White, editor)
To write is to scratch a mosquito bite: while you’re well aware that scratching prolongs its irritation, you cannot stop even though doing so would bring a quicker ending to its misery. But this misery is such sweet sensation! It permits cautious revelations of those portions of your private self you deem appropriate for sharing; its delight lies in solving the puzzle of doing so but keeping your most embarrassing secrets to yourself – all while having to remain conscious of grammar, style, and voice. The words produced are merely evidence of the joy obtained from the scratching. Surely the process, when successful, is equal in satisfaction to having solved the riddles of the Rosetta Stone or the Gordian Knot. And even when its product fails (which is more often than not), the writer is livelier for the attempt and his brain has been sweetened anew.
For even the taste of a poor tarte Tatin is better than having had no taste at all.
The secret of life is gettin’ up early
The secret of life is stayin’ up late
The secret of life is try not to hurry
But don’t wait, don’t wait…
Gretchen Peters, The Secret of Life, from the album Circus Girl
