from: thoughtsthattoddhasn't had.blogspot.com
We have been kicking around this issue of why we write and why we would bother to keep a blog. I would suppose there are many reasons to do so, but for hopefully serious writers it’s really a different issue. We write because ultimately we can’t not write: it’s like a river running deep and there may be issues of blockage or other things that frustrate our attempts …but all that said, we plow on.
I think the point of all of our attempts is to improve.
It’s a craft after all, this cobbling together of words. It takes some vision and a lot of work. We need to read broadly for that vision to develop and those who don’t are condemned to mediocrity. There are a lot of blogs out there that don’t attempt to do much except think they interest the public with their agony in life. They use it as a tool of self-therapy. This is unavoidable for all of us, because we think our personal problems are issues of great interest…to others besides ourselves. I’ve done this many times on this blog, but hopefully I have come to understand some things.
People come here to read not because I have answers or because I have their common agony in life. Sometimes we do, but it’s not a common bitching site.
They come here to read my writing. I owe these readers the very best I can squeak out. That is a process: it takes time and a concerted effort on my part to do so. I don’t write here for affirmation or attention, though in some cases, I get that. (And attention can be good and bad.) I write here because I try to entertain with my writing and that is reason enough. Probably what most of us aim for: we are storytellers, after all.
I have a great group of fellow writers around me. Bill Penrose, Nick Nicholson, Dan Holloway, Steve Isaak, and a few others. Most of these excellent writers can be found on the blog roll to the right of this text. All of them have worked hard to push their writing upward: they are no slight writers, either, and they always stand to support and help me work out issues. But the lion’s share of that comes from my own efforts.
If we don’t make those efforts, we can’t call ourselves writers. At least not in the category I want to belong.
Mino begs a gift of Poseidon and
from the sea comes a white bull.
Glorious Bull! With hooves of gold,
eyes of fire and sweet of breath.
Pasiphae, Mino’s wife
besotted with the sight of him
begs Mino to spare his sword
and offers her handmaidens
for the sacrifice.
Tender-hearted Mino allows his wife
to rule his judgment
all sense is pushed aside,
havoc soon overturns the throne.
Pasiphae builds a wooden cow
and besotted with lust
climbs into the decoy
Seduces the golden hoofed Bull.
The Minotaur is born, suckled from
grew wild –the labyrinth
built to imprison him.
Unnatural love- making produces
unnatural monster Minotaur
half man and half bull,
given freedom only in a maze,
fed on virgins of both sexes.
But Poseidon has the last laugh.
He was the gift, the snow white bull
and cuckolds Mino
for his greed.
Mystic marriage overturns a throne and kingdom,
reveals the deception of woman,
produces monster offspring.
In his maze all paths lead to the grave.
Copyrighted, 2009, 2010