Words To A New Writer; Writing To Be — The Glorious Madness
So What Wont of Madness has brought you Here?
A friend reminded me once, why am I doing this — must I do what I do and what is it that I do? — remind yourself of all those whimsical dreams of youth, of that kinder in ye still, and why you continue to bless or curse yourself with this crafting refinement.
So what brought you here? You care for a stock and a half-pint of witlessness, some may tell you. At this recent shock of your new pining craft. What is bringing you to, and unfolding you so?
Challenging as it is to be, to surface up on another shore as the descended artist to quiver, don’t be foolish as the great Romantics of yore. Hardly any of them passed the age of Twenty-five!; Invest into yourself, by the manner of uncluttered Clothes — like I never seem to do! — a smarting Mind and a quivering Desire to retain so much, torched by this crawling need for an endless rotation of books. It isn’t the velocity of your attack to this all, however frightful it may seem, but rather the pacing you can retain for yourself. For the days long past the first movement to it all. Remember that, otherwise, you’ll be heaving the hemorrhoids till old age has acquainted you with a bitter match.
Ask yourself the Why and, surely, the Reason for it to be, will have a purpose arousing yourself firmly. True, it is to be said, not all the Reasons Why will be clear at the start — Life is the meddling instrument throughout — and even confusing why you do what you do now, for an unforeseen end. But put trust and recognition in yourself, in what attracts you Well. I’ve hobbled together a library in such a large trove. Currently, I have no full idea where it’ll lead me, But that’s my impassionated trust in it all, this journeyman beckoning me on and on; careless it may seem to a prude, but it’s my own daring to be, Finding that willingness to and by yourselves is what I ask of you. Dare that brilliance to be — it’s a hard squabble.
For their diminishing bells to the courting romance of youth shall lead you onto such a life-held venture,
I could never say of what you possess now, shall deliver tomorrow, but always remember the daring to be —
So with this ingested, dearest reader, what were your expectations?:
A firm riptide, conducting your actions for you; So might I ask: So What Wont of Madness has brought you Here? Was it some casting bell as it was for me? Did you believe in the shy child arising wild and wide from the rafter like the mystic messenger of beholden heavens had and lost? Have you sought something inexplicable yet still, are you forebore to naught? Could this be is my want of presumptions — Tho’ as you know, presumptions are the meddling mother of all Tommyrot! — That you believed in the fairytales of old? My dearest Child to ask of it, for this happenstance to be: Of you reading this letter from an old lass, Dare to be and don’t be afraid, that was yesteryear’s lot — Contrive that tale to be.
The endless springboard of possibilities, stories, and inspirations on here alone is enough to remark one down with the burden of insanity; There is so much, too much, and the mode to refine is truly one of the principles of a marked writer; a True writer even, if I so use such a high superlative catch.
Refine, Refine, and Refine: Never publish First Drafts either! Remain curious evermore, Dare yourself to be a Writer.
Undoubtedly the questioning banners are flying, taught around their poles on why is this and why for such thusness; some indeed shall hurtle you with abuses and thoughtless inquires on your aiming of one’s life true.
But it’s you that must Know before you can either Recoil or Continue forth; These Reasons why can only be attained by you, furthering you each day.
However daunting it becomes to be, slippering around in the bowls of your mind contested, remind yourself of this golden rule:
To Be is to contest whether or not that Being, of what you’re now, is actually what you decide to Be — when the end comes, was it worth it? In its long casting spell, think of the entailing If and what’ll bring to you, Ill or Damned be Good, in a day far off from now.
Keep a consideration and awareness for that, And what you’re delighting and revealing to yourself Each and every day, and surely, you cannot fail, at least Being a writer of yourself for your own self — Paged and journaled; tucked safely away somewhere, Is that remark of You?
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