Rebuttal

Seeing as one of my very few commenting readers has asked a question, I will without hesitation write an entire blog post in response. (I daresay I am just as likely to write a book in response to a challenge as was Chesterton.)

I was speaking of a written work in poetic terms: a fruit, to be precise. Now when one holds an imperfect fruit in his hand—perhaps it has a worm hole or a great moldy gash in it—then he would feel no guilt if he were to throw it into the compost or merely toss it into the bushes and forget about it. However, if it were possible for him to bring the fruit to a state of perfection, he would of course prefer that option. One thing he must never do is pulverize the fruit, for that would be contradictory to the writing process; if, however, it is not a fruit at all, but only appeared so, then he ought by all means to pulverize it.

Now, leaving aside any rigid assertions about the physical possibilities of bringing the fruit to a state of perfection—as this part is not important—let us continue to where this analogy leads us...

Once the fruit is as perfect as it may be, then it goes forth into the world. That is its first true test.

It is upon these fruits that the world will be nourished and thus their quality is of incalculable importance. Those that mold ought to be thrown out and trampled underfoot. Those that yield only vinegar may have a part to play, but only a small one, and ought to be regarded with care. Those that yield only wine will cause many to become drunk and foolish upon them, though for those who take them only in moderation they may do no harm and even be of benefit. Yet it is those that yield wholesome flesh and juice that shall provide the nourishment necessary for all. Thus is the first part of the test.

And the second is like it: the fruit, in yielding this nourishment to the world, must not shrink and lose its shape or become blemished, but remain firm and whole and beautiful. For those that do will soon be discarded.

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The above left aside of course the whole issue of what people do with the fruits' yield, for naturally not all are content merely to take sustenance from them in their natural form. These are the jellies and applesauces and whatnot about which I was questioned.

Some people cannot enjoy the fruit wholly without extracting the flesh and making something more of it than was originally there, though without changing any more than the appearance of it. I am not saying that this is without merit—for there is a time and a place for everything—yet these should be made with care, as often such processes involve bringing in additional ingredients (e.g. the salts and sugars and cinnamons and sundry others). Depending upon what is added, the result may be so different from the original fruit as to be unrecognizable. But there are also those that would be indigestible without said additions.

This is by no means an inexhaustible list. Many other means of sustenance exist which involve these fruits only in part or in an amalgamation of them, and I have not time—nor interest—in covering all of them.

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There it is. I do not know of what benefit it was, as I ought really to be writing other things, but I did rather enjoy it. Although at this rate I suppose I might just as well write a book of analogies about writing.

The idea all came about because of one question, and I appreciate it. These days people do not ask enough questions and those they do ask are usually the wrong ones, for they are afraid to say too much, and so they say too little. If only people would ask more questions and would actively seek the truth, the world would be a better place.

A Child's Wisdom

So the other day I was taking care of my little brother outside. Now, except that he needed someone to watch him and he prefers to play with someone, my being there was rather superfluous, which allowed me to speculate upon the abilities of young children in general and three-and-a-half-year-olds in particular.

Of course not all children are the same. After all, not all three-and-a-half-year-olds can do simple addition and subtraction. However, he gave me much to ponder.

My conclusion was that young children are natural storytellers. For one, they have not yet reached the point where they delineate true and false in relation to what has happened and what has not. If we tell him about some event that has happened in the past it is just as real for him as what he tells us he has done before and as real as what is happening around him. Often when children tell adults something, the adults respond by asking, “Really?” This is a question children would not think to ask, for it implies a certain degree of disbelief, of cynicism, which they do not yet know. Their minds are still free to believe anything.

As he played with a newt from the gully, he showed his innate sense of narrative. Everything we did had to be done a certain way and in a certain order.

It is these reasons that make children such good storytellers, and yet there is one thing they lack: they have not yet developed a sense for what is interesting to hear about and what is not. If you ever listen to them telling a story, you will notice that they tell everything in the order it happened, leaving nothing out. Perhaps, though, it would be more accurate to say not that it is a lack but that it is something of which they have an over abundance, their sense of the importance of everything being so strong that they hold each and every thing with equal regard.

As children grow older they lose so much. That is why children often seem so happy, while adults do only rarely. As they grow, they forget their natural creativity, reducing everything to the black and white, true and false, of the adult world. They learn to doubt, to disbelieve. They narrow their sense of the important to rest upon a limited number of things that have little meaning for them. Thus they not only lose their ability as storytellers, but also they lose the ability to live happily.

It is for this reason that Jesus said we must become like children if we wish to enter heaven and that the kingdom of heaven belonged to such as these.

For writers this is especially important. We must have a child's creativity so that we move beyond the hard lines accepted as facts and dare to attempt what we never would otherwise, a childlike confidence in our work, and also a child's wonder at the world. This is what shall produce fruit.

Yet once we have that precious fruit—that first draft—we must be able to continue on. For this it is necessary to have abilities gained only with maturity: the ability to judge and assess the work, and the ability to be able to listen to others and learn from what they have to tell us. It is these that shall enable us to improve both our craft and our stories so that we may create works that may be of lasting influence in the world.

A Recognized Thirst

After avoiding it for more than a month, I finally sat down yesterday evening to write. Though it took me much effort of will to force myself to do it, as soon as I had begun, the pleasure of words and ideas flowing from my mind brought peace.

So I wrote this story about a man who thinks himself imprisoned, but really is not. I am fairly pleased with it, at least the idea of it, though I daresay I shall tinker with it a little more before I look for readers.

Now there is something I read a little while ago, which echoes in my mind. Oh, how true it is! I knew it before, but I refused to act upon it, rather like the man in my story. That of which I speak was written by the poet Rilke:

“You are looking outward and that above all you must not do now. Nobody can counsel and help you, nobody.”

There is a deep well within each of us and we need only go to it and dip into it, but fear often holds us back. Instead we look for others to tell us that our stories are good. We look for friends to encourage us, to talk of many things--“...of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings.” We look anywhere, but within ourselves.

The hermits, I think, knew best. Those who are closest to God are closest to themselves and thus closer to their own deep wells. When one is waiting to hear from his friends and wanting to talk with them, he often ignores what lies within himself. Yet if one were to withdraw wholly from the world—not to hear from any living soul—and be alone with God, he would be able to draw more deeply from that well. Perhaps I shall try that someday.

I suppose, though, there are many things that would be lost then. A conversation with a good friend is priceless, and oft brings into being things that otherwise would never have known the light.

Passion

"You lack the fire."
~An old fencing master

Thus was the student's answer given in very few words, but it had a drastic result: the student then gave up fencing, thereby proving the fencing master's words.

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The other day it occurred to me how little I have been writing, but what is more, how little I even think about writing and the things thereof. It used to be that I would rise at five o'clock so as to have at least two good hours before everyone else woke, and I was always thinking about some new story idea, and always working on several projects at once, starting numerous stories, every now and again finishing one. Writing was my life, my passion.

But now...

Now I no longer want to write.

Now my passion for writing has been replaced by something else: fencing. All week I look forward to those days when I can fence, I practice every day and I can hardly think of anything else. It was hard at first—though I always enjoyed it—but now I have gotten to the point where I begin to have enough control that I can think about what is happening; I can do more than react to the person before me, and I have begun to gain confidence in myself. I even feel I might fence all day every day and not tire of it. In fact, my passion for fencing is such that I begin to wonder whether I ought not to forget my desire to be a writer...

As soon as such a thought enters my mind, however, I know it could never be. I write because I cannot not write. Even in these times when I feel as if I will never write anything of worth, I know that I cannot give it up, that I must keep trying.

After all, it has only been a little more than a month since I could hardly think of anything but the story I was finishing. Such a time will come again, I have no doubts. Yet I miss the days when I used to work on projects with others, as that always spurred me on and fueled my desire to write. Now I seek inspiration wherever I may, knowing that I must hope to find it nowhere but in myself.

Yet there is one thing that is essential, both in fencing and in writing. As my good friend and fellow writer put it: "Confidence is, like, tres important." And it is. No matter how I think others might judge my writing, no matter how many harsh criticisms and spurning rejections I get, I must have confidence in myself and my writing.

It is easy with things such as fencing where I can see my improvement and judge it against others, while I have a teacher to point out what I am doing wrong. However, in writing I must be the final judge. And I am a harsh judge.

I do at least have a couple of ideas that are growing in my mind and I may decide to combine them, which would make a really neat story...

I do not want it to be said that I lack the fire.

Inconsequentiality

There are some things that are considered socially acceptable—and even socially beneficial—that we never think to question, and yet if we bothered to take the time to ponder, would realize their ridiculousness. I daresay there are a great many of these, but the one I have in mind at the moment is wholly inconsequential, and therefore the more interesting.

That entity to which I refer is the habit of baring one's teeth accompanied by a simultaneous upward curve of the lips. This is more generally described as the action accompanying a snarl, and yet we accept it by another name and even prefer people who frequently engage in this activity.

Yes, I speak of the phenomenon generally referred to as smiling.

It is not an activity in which I much engage. Mostly I tend to regard the world with a thoughtful expression while I ponder deeper matters, but even I do on occasion participate in this action. The naturalness of this expression causes me to wonder about it, especially as it seems to be in direct contradiction to the rest of creation. Why is it that if other animals engage in this activity we instantly are wary of them and other animals feel threatened, but if we do, then we find friends gathered about us, eager to enjoy our company?