A man who writes a story is forced to put into it the best
of his knowledge and the best of his feeling. The discipline of the written
word punishes both stupidity and dishonesty. A writer lives in awe of words for
they can be cruel or kind, and they can change their meanings right in front of
you. They pick up flavors and odors like butter in a refrigerator. Of course,
there are dishonest writers who go on for a little while, but not for long—not
for long. A writer out of loneliness is trying to communicate like a distant
star sending signals. He isn’t telling or teaching or ordering. Rather he seeks
to establish a relationship of meaning, of feeling, of observing. We are
lonesome animals. We spend all life trying to be less lonesome. One of our
ancient methods is to tell a story begging the listener to say—and to feel.
“Yes, that’s the way it is, or at least that’s the way I feel it. You’re not as
alone as you thought”. Of course a writer rearranges life, shortens time
intervals, sharpens events, and devises beginnings, middles and ends. We do
have curtains—in a day, morning, noon and night, in a man, birth, growth and
death. These are curtain rise and curtain fall, but the story goes on and
nothing finishes. To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the
last word down and it is done. But it isn’t really done. The story goes on and
leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.
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