Im intimidated, at times. I find Im subdued by writers, educated, avid readers, with a memorized vocabulary daunting and vast. Im not certain they are aware of the exhausting population of words in their repertoire. They are good friends with F. Scott Fitzgerald, took classes on American Literature. With amazing ability they can regurgitate an eloquent verse from Robert Frost. Walt Whitmans decayed hand guides their written form.
While I scribbled obscure words found in a ragged thesaurus, stoned, smoke still bellowing from my nostrils, my writing peers deciphered Othello. My words on paper soiled by ash and carbon phantasm made little sense. And what great literature have I read to date? Nothing of Whitman, I know little of Hart Cranesomething of Frosts drifts vaguely through my thoughts as a dream that threatens to fade if gripped too eagerly. Even Langston Hues work slips my grasp.
How then, do I dare call myself a writer? Am I really an artist of written word? I ask myself these questions. I swallow a putrid solution of self-pity and doubt. My only remedy are these words, my only solace is to write.
As for these literary giants, I wont ever conquer them or make their work obscure. Yet if I eat their rotting words and suckle their dusty bones can I then call myself a writer?
Written Angst
JA Freeman
While I scribbled obscure words found in a ragged thesaurus, stoned, smoke still bellowing from my nostrils, my writing peers deciphered Othello. My words on paper soiled by ash and carbon phantasm made little sense. And what great literature have I read to date? Nothing of Whitman, I know little of Hart Cranesomething of Frosts drifts vaguely through my thoughts as a dream that threatens to fade if gripped too eagerly. Even Langston Hues work slips my grasp.
How then, do I dare call myself a writer? Am I really an artist of written word? I ask myself these questions. I swallow a putrid solution of self-pity and doubt. My only remedy are these words, my only solace is to write.
As for these literary giants, I wont ever conquer them or make their work obscure. Yet if I eat their rotting words and suckle their dusty bones can I then call myself a writer?
Written Angst
JA Freeman