People like a good story. And authors everywhere in every time previous up to the present are tasked to wrack their brain to come up with good ones. Tales that trump the previous ones told, both in and out of memory. To speak in a manner that captures interest it seems one is best to express both love and disgust almost simultaneously. Ever does the pen attempt to right some infinitively unjust wrong with splashes of ink applied here or there to suit the genre and taste that the reader finds most novel. Yet in life, in the assembling of such tales one is challenged by fleeting moments ever on the cusp of recognition for lack of the true import of what their permutations with deliver.
An instant that, like falling from on high from an unsuspected edge, once can only appreciate at best within whistling air. The impact, always fatal to the conclusions come of one’s accompanying thoughts. Like good wine, some small measure of same, appropriately fit for later recollection. The larger story that one had original purpose to retell, only able to be approximately hinted at. This is the place where the reader’s imagination takes rightful command and fills in the needed empathetic blanks. So then, writers are like sailors locked upon land, bereft of the ability to convey the actuality of their mother sea. Poor tradesman by the standards of normal material offerings, they are abandoned from the conventional dealings of other men in tangible offspring of experiences available through coin.
Thus the blank page is a vast ocean that separates the author from those that would seek to call themselves his appreciators. However wide this breach, occasionally the prose turns to verse and stills the soul of all who love the language that the illusions were put forth. This is the grace and holy chalice that all writers seek in their heart of hearts. A tenuous existence at best with absolutely perfect strangers.