How I write

I am an autodidact writer, and enough an artist to draw upon my imagination of a child within, that is, I still keep my dream alive, malgré-tout. I lose contact with my muse for, sometimes_work, daily train-train, and necessary household duties obliged, then it’s timeout for hobbies, and the like. But, _”chase the natural, it comes back in gallops,”like the French adage said, isn’t it? Then, here I am on the road, on stage, to write; it’s a one-stand alone, in a one- man-show,  facing a blanc page.

Courtezy Lynette Noni

So I never consider a blanc page as a void, but a space to my passerby thoughts, so I frame it the moment it shows up, whether I was doodling on a scrap of paper, or a Sketchbook. A blanc page is your best confident friend, like a book is your companion. A blanc page never complains about how you trait it, and always gives you back what you put on it, and then you’re left by your own critics with your thoughts. “Seize the thing, and the words will flow, ” Cicero said, and draw a ligne to, fix the moment when you see a glimpse of a picture , of an idea in front of you, like Cézane,  That’s all!

The rest is superfluous, besides , of what is the next idea in contrast, what are negative spaces next to positive space, light and shadows, chiaroscuro, and prose and poetry. All what left aside is pure artistic literature.

So, writing is never depressing, facing a blanc lets me draw imaginary lines in a frame, a widow to a universe beyond reality, to contemplate, like in a daydream, a perspective, to a fleeting wisp that resizes itself an instant, before being carried away by the flow of things that cross my mind, in a wisp of a frown: what are you thinking then, and what are you thinking now?

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http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/5997/the-art-of-nonfiction-no-3-john-mcphee?src=longreads

I have read  the book, “A Sense of  where you are”, an example manifest of  presence  of the author, and the effect of his presence, his voice, totally in view to the reader, while his personality remaining indistinct. Here is an excerpt of it, where McPhee,  in a brief scene , that he wrote in book-lengthy   profile of the famous   baseball player Bill Bradley, that is,  before the star became senator. McPhee is watching The Star practice , and then Bradley misses a shot: …the ball curled around the rim and failed to go in…

"What happened then?" I asked him.                                                                                                                  " I didn't kick high enough," he said.                                                                                                               
 "Do you   always  know exactly why you've missed a shot?"                                                                       " Yes," he said, ...missing another one.                                                                                                                    "What happened that time?"                                                                                                                               "I was talking to you. I didn't concentrate. The secrecy of shooting is concentration."

Mr. McPhee wrote it in the first person, in a casual and natural tone, to make the reader see it in the characteristically  way he wrote the story, he wanted the reader to be present,  not as sitting back only but like a confident, some sort.

Encounters with the Archdruid“_John McPhee’s, another book, l have read lately_I never get tired of reading those excerpts of the author encounters, and interviews_also; it  shows a pattern of extreme complexity, the way it was written, and, with more explicitly,  in a passage where he concluded, after a peripheral itinerary, back and forth, like flash-back with different sittings, between the past and the present:
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2013/01/14/130114fa_fact_mcphee?currentPage=all
The story is told in three parts, initially, it is an extended profile of the most prominent personalities of that time, between the different antagonists of the story,  dam builder, environmentalists, and people who represent the forces  of environment destruction, that is to draw them  in to a debate, where the writer  was a pursuit for of a series interviews through different, places and times, until the moment, it took place in a raft trip down the Colorado River. Then the writer takes the reader in aparte _ when he pull aside, in a confidence, a confessional tone, to tell him: after he took the initiative, to embark you  in a journey, of less than few minutes where you got almost wet: the high-speed of the river, with the slow motion of the raft:

What seemed  unimaginable beside the river in the canyon was that all that wild water had been processed , like pork slurry in a hot-dog plant, upstream in the lightless penstock of a dam.

The  last I discovered is this article below: see  link

“At one point I said, Mr. Shawn, you have this whole enterprise going, a magazine is printing this weekend, and you’re the editor of it, and you sit here talking about these commas and semicolons with me—how can you possibly do it?”

I stay speechless, as if I was standing , in the presence of  the writer  in person , when you hear  his voice through reading the books, and finally this item above.

Modestly speaking, did you hear me? when I say:

” thank you for reading”

Soul-of-my guitar

I learnt from thee, passer-by
To recite yours of Poetry
Those verses, I made them my song,
Poems, like leaves fallen from a tree,

A tide, rolling away on the street
The passing of Autumn, dyeing his body_
A girl with a tattoo, a dragonfly
Drift away, walking her dog at her feet.

Mid-haiku, and half-quatrain,
Be it a sunny day or it rain
Night and day, Time flies
A Daydream, tell me where it lays

I, like a cicada, had
It sung all day long
Resting on a limb of a tree
Passer-by, sing with me

may I sing it all the summer long
Sway with me, Stay with me along
That’s for, O you passer-by,
Make a Bow take your hat
Will you please
Drop some coins in my hat

At Mid-day or rush-hour
Take the A or the Q-train,
stopping by, for a second,
At thirty-fourth or 42nd
The streets , I make them our
Home, Be it snow or it rains

Oh! How foolish, you are
You throw, dimes and dollars,
on the ground at my feet,
while the soul of my guitar
Burns low like cigar
Makes your hearth, beat
That’s a kvel of delight

I don’t need the spotlights
I don’t need the limelight
I don’t need all the above
All I need is love

Can’t you see me,
that I am bleeding
Can’t you see me
That I am weeping

Can’t you hear me
It’s here in my heart deep
It’s in my insides-within
Still my guitar gently weeps

Can’t you see those, at noon
My tears like diamonds,
on a starry night.
Rise your eyes, as you might

The moon you can see
Reflecting its own eye
In The offing,
depart is such a sailing
Tequila at sunrise, and I
Sorry, I drink Poesy

Ô you Time Passer-by
Whisper my song to the wind,
It’s like a summer love
It will rest on a catcher net
Like a butterfly On a stay
A fleeting wisp in a rivulet

So, will you please
Gimme back my dream,
And take that of yours
I need my hearth to rest

Please Take me home
Take me home, it’s enough for me,
Of all the broken roads, and tours
To the other bout of the World

I, a troubadour
Finally have a shore to hug,
a safe harbor that’s all I need
To rest my bones, on a dock at last.

Take me to the mountain,
A water, to drink It
Take me to the river
I would like to see my face in it,

I need to see
Once more with my eyes
If the river is still a river
Still Running thought it,

If the mountain still a mountain
The Ozark’s to climb it

The south stars in the sky,
Orion, Betelgeuse, and Rigel,
An old omen to quell,
Say, The Milky Way
the sky is the limit,
you can tell
I’m sailing Anyway

So, O you passer-by
Passing Time Square
Look what they have done to my song.
Take it from my tongue,
Mame, Look where it lays,
At Broadway
They ditch it

Night-owl, I wrote it and or Early-Bird, All’right, I did it

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CEx2LpSp_ao

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I woke up early at a wee hour, today, with in mind to put down the idea that I was looking for in late the evening, thinking that I would find it, when I’ll wake up  afresh, as a good night sleep is a mother of conseil, like the saying  goes, and as often it works;  the cause of it, a friendly reminder from Weekly Wp challenge, urging me to post one, to commit to my weekly goal; but I had no idea, I was wondering  what to write; it  just sucked me as I was updating some of my old posts, a working habit_taking advice from a French classical poet, Nicolas Boileau that he said:

“Polissez-le sans cesse, et le repolissez,”

a quote, I treasured since High-school, that my teacher loved to repeat when passing in the rows of students, in classes for homework  review. We might freely translate as ” Polish it without cease of strife, and  then polish it again,” advice since Greek and Romain times, then experienced  writers used to urge their disciple to practice, longtime before ” wax on wax off “_ Myagi the master’s advice to” Karate Kid,” in the movie.

Then it stroke softly my neurons, while I was listening to classical music; typically the chords  drift to them,” vissi d’arte,  vissi d’amore–I lived for Art, I lived for love”_Puccini my favorite, and it said it all;  I find this gem in the book (Charles Lamb _The Evolution of Elia, ) by George L. Barnett, chapter Five, page 127_The  Craftsman. In  a footnote to”Oxford  in Vacation,” the essay  in the London Magazine ” Fine things in their Ore”,  in the passage below, write it down for the pleasure to read it

“How it staggered me to see the fine things in  their ore!  interlined, corrected as if their words were mortal, alterable, displaceable at pleasure! As if they might have been otherwise, and just as good! As if inspirations were made up  of parts, and those fluctuating,  successive , indifferent! I will never go into the work shop  of any great artist again, nor desire a sight of his  picture, till it  is fairly off the easel; no, not if Raphael were to be alive again, and painting another Galatea.”

For those  who read for pleasure only, this may be a valid approach of my own;

“Night-owl, and Early bird I am, to write  it down, I needed an awl to carve that damn-good idea from its ore”_Ink’n Quill