I have considered myself a writer for years, but sometimes I read things which remind me that 90% of the writing I do is the equivalent of slapping blobs of fingerpaints with flat, open hands. People like Dervala (my Dad just sent me that today) and Sars (I’m a longtime fan of hers) are much more on the fine art side of things – they paint pictures with their words. Beautiful pictures. Sad pictures. Hilarious, side-splitting pictures. So much of my writing is spattery blobs – effective for getting colors onto paper, but not exactly artistic.
Whenever I think that I should work more on my writing and try to really get a handle on writing as well as the writers I admire, I find myself making weak excuses. I don’t have time, I say, because I am so busy with work, Aikido, and my reviews (which all too often feel rushed to me).
But excuses do not lead to improved writing; writing leads to improved writing. I think from now on, when I read something that makes me go, “I wish I wrote that well,” I should close that window and actually write something.

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