There’s a part of me that believes art to be a primordial aspect of the human condition. Art inspires, art is a way of achieving greatness, of building a better world. Art turns strangers into friends. Without art, without artists, we wouldn’t be ourselves anymore.
Because I feel that within the confines of any artistic form of expression, we allow ourselves to wear a mask. The artist hides behind words or paints or brushes. And he feels safe. He can be anyone he wants to be. His freedom is limitless. And he plays this bizarre game of hide and seek with the rest of the world, constantly changing the rules, until he decides – maybe on a mere subconscious level – to be himself, thinking that people will never find out.
“Art is never finished, only abandoned.” ― Leonardo da Vinci
Lately I’ve been considering the fact that I should/could edit all my previous releases. Lucky me, I’ve got plenty of other projects to keep me busy, so I can postpone this idea and overthink it until it becomes terrible.
But, if I were to read my books again, years after I last did that, I know that I’d feel compelled to change a lot of things. First of all, my style has changed quite a bit. And the way I understand fiction, the written word, the way said words form sentences. Or, better said, the way I prefer them to form sentences.
“Any man who keeps working is not a failure. He may not be a great writer, but if he applies the old-fashioned virtues of hard, constant labor, he’ll eventually make some kind of career for himself as writer.” —Ray Bradbury
The first story the Writer ever shared with fellow human beings was unanimously hated by said humans. One of them said, about the Writer, that he was either a retard or fourteen years old.
But he kept writing. One bad story after another. He kept reading, as if to accumulate all the words the Great Writers, the ones before him, had ever put down on paper. Continue reading “The Writer: Episode #7”→