Saturday, January 19, 2013

Excuses Almost Discovered and Dispelled

I am using this as some excuse to write, for I have far too many excuses not to write.  Although this will not produce any work of consequence, it will hopefully assist in breaking the habit of not doing anything.

I make no promises that I will write anything consistently, but that for the moment I will write this and everything thereafter will be completely accidental.

As if it isn't already apparent, I am reading "The Beautiful and Dammed" by F. Scott Fitzgerald, again. With my older eyes, and by the standards of what I have lived these 20 some odd years since last cracking the cover of this tome, it appears as much more of a novel novel than it did the first time.  The book could be described as the inspiration of Seinfeld, as it is a book that is much to do about nothing.  Still as I wade my way through this literary classic, and knowing the author, both as a child of literature and now as a fervent consumer of literature, it unfolds before me as a commentary of a period of time, that is timeless and important, and I am all the more interested in its impact on the present than as a reflection of the past it portrays.  Unfortunately I am caught in the idea that it tells the story, breaking the cardinal rule of writing, show don't tell.  It is F. Scott Fitzgerald, he is allowed that license, for he is a writer to which other writers should, if they have any sense at all rattling in their heads, take note from, no, take cue from, as his art and craft are such that they present such scene and characters that it must be noticed for more than just their timelessness, but also their existence beyond the pages of the novel itself.  I am in awe of this man's crafting of story, and critical of it at the same time, in that it does break the rules, but for this it is all the greater to read.  It is literature after all, not romance, not a dime store mystery, or some bit of horrific fiction (be it either of dark stories or just badly written), but a work of art that transcends the moments of its publication and setting to provide a framework for more work from such followers as I.  If only I could write something so eloquent, with my leaning towards the likes of Hemingway, and the Bard himself, it seems that it is high upon the shelf, like a bottle of single malt, but not quite above the 50 year old Brandy that awaits some very special occasion with a very special woman, or long lost acquaintance.

So that dispensed with, I am spent and will now allow you all to return to your regularly scheduled lives of boredom and mediocrity until at some time in the future I feel the desire and need to exhibit my inadequate ability to appear well educated, whimsical, and well just plain demeaning, for I am aware that all my readers wait for nothing more than to be made insignificant as we all know we actually are within the whole scheme of the universe.

Good Day

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