There once lived a young girl, who, as she grew older, forgot how to say no to things and so - by overloading herself with too many activities - felt and acted much older than she actually was. Once a talanted and blossoming writer, she let her talent (and probably her imagination as well) grow rusty by not practicing. Gradually, she lost the ability to set words in their proper place, until one day she realized that she was actually trying to twist and manipulate them.
"Aha," she thought. "Perhaps this is why my little things never turn out anymore. I shall have to discover some method of putting this to rights again."
And so the young girl decided to start a grand and adventurous quest to discover her imagination. Of course, the proper word should probably be 'rediscover,' as she had once had it but had lost it. The girl decided to start with some of the things which made her feel most imaginative.
There were of course her many role models: Dickens, Austen, Tolkien, Lewis, and so many other of those great authors whose works are tragically looked over by the general populus nowadays. Notwithstanding, the girl felt that she had been creating only, "mediocre copies of another man's genius" since she lost her imagination. No, role models were no good. She wanted to put something of herself into this new magnum opus. Surely it would include great, interesting words which she had yet to learn, and some French (which grammar would almost certainly contain errors), and most likely accents of an exotic variety and description. But all this aside, there was a certain somethingness of enigmaticallity which was deep within her - but which she had yet to discover.
There was the way a bass could both quiver and throb. There was the wheat of Elysium which only comes to the true of heart, in their dreams. There was Nutella. There was poetry. There was romance and heartbreak such as had never been felt before. There was villany, but ultimately a happy ending. There were Carnations and Sweet William. There was a truly wonderous teacher. And there were old, faded books that smelt of must, in a dusty library with a rolling, gilt-framed ladder.
And thus began the adventure of a lifetime. The girl began her journey with but a single step, as the poet has said. And the step was this: realization. She one day stopped, took a look about her, and realized the great, gaping, black hole which not writing had dug about her. And she realized that she must immediately start some catching-up work in order to correct the error of neglect.
The step of realization accomplished, she moved on to the next. Regrettably, the poet has failed to record any information as to this very necessary stage of operations. The girl was left to find it out for herself.
She decided to sleep on it, and see if morning wouldn't shed some light on the subject, and bring everything back to order in the end.
I am not quite sure what to say about that all . . .
ReplyDeleteI need to think about it