Good writing is invisible. Good art is invisible, like a spotless lens through which we see the macro and micro nuances of human souls. Good writing is like great sex, leaving us ravaged in heart, mind and body, sated, with a hunger for more. Good writing is like riding a glider carried on the winds of words, like a drug that manipulates our senses and betrays our realities. Good writing makes us gods of a thousand worlds. We look down and into every secret, omniscient, transcendent, watching as lives and nations rise and fall with the twist of a paragraph. Good writing is a humble light, illuminating without exposing itself.
Words, the midwife of our dreams and tragedies, are free to all who dare to own them.
We search a half million words in our language, infinite combinations. Some walk on the page and find themselves quite at home. They fit, they work, they invite their friends to join them. Others are arrogant and stubborn, even nasty and mean. They hide in our synapses and run when they are discovered. Words disguise themselves, wrong ones for right, and right for wrong. They lie, they cheat, they taunt and refuse to be chiseled into a sentence without the due sacrifice of time and skill.
It is the artist who befriends these renegades, these undisciplined rebels. It is the artist who has bled through enough pages to earn respect among these sacred and illusive logoi from which good writing must flow. It is the artist who learns to liberate words rather than to incarcerate them.