My mind is empty tonight. I would love to write about my afternoon, watching and playing with my children outdoors, but the words I composed for it while engaged in it have departed my brain. I would post more January pictures and write about our doings therein, or write about each of the children individually, or describe the weekend, or something….
But I have nothing. Instead, I will give you something from my dear Annie Dillard, and if it’s cheating to quote someone else well, it’s my blog, and I’ll quote if I want to.
And then, I will take a bath and read the swashbuckler I’m reading, and go to bed, and hope for better in the morning.
So here is Annie then:
“The written word is weak. Many people prefer life to it. Life gets your blood going, and it smells good. Writing is mere writing, literature is mere. It appeals only to the subtlest senses– the imagination’s vision, and the imagination’s hearing– and the moral sense, and the intellect. This writing that you do, that so thrills you, that so rocks and exhilarates you, as if you were dancing next to the band, is barely audible to anyone else. The reader’s ear must adjust down from loud life to the subtle, imaginary sounds of the written word.”
-The Writing Life
