THE GIFT

One of the pleasures in the life of a writer is discovering among one’s many descendants, one of them has the gift for writing emergent in the early years. The same must be true in the life of the artist, when one’s child or grandchild dabbles with paints and turns out a masterpiece at age five. Need I mention Mozart? I am blest with an awareness of such genius among three generations of my descendants, in two of these areas, art and writing. And there was briefly a drummer, nine-tenths rhythm. Of course, we oldsters like to claim the credit in that “it came from me.” But I can think of no member of my forbears who was a writer in the creative writing sense. However, in the nineteenth century, some of them kept busy with diaries relating to their professions of law, medicine, or education, and some of those are available today in libraries. They composed and delivered speeches, wrote a voluminous number of letters, but if any of them wrote what was called the “dime novel,” they were closet writers.

But having the gift is just Part 1 of the story. It must be developed with practice and within certain acceptable ramifications, while at the same time the aspirant knows there are no rules for any artistic pursuit. I say this with some reservation. For example, the artist must understand true perspective, although he may wander far afield. The maestro or composer must know what true harmony is while he may present cacophony and gain standing ovations. The writer may be an exceptional oral storyteller, not alert to language structure well enough to set the stories to paper. But numerous ghostwriters stand waiting to help.

Anyone who excels in these realms knows the effort is hard work, but also enjoyable. Why follow a particular discipline that isn’t fun? It takes two-thirds of one’s life, and perhaps the other third at times, so why not choose an enjoyable sphere?

♥