The art of language was once lost. This time is now referred to as the Dark Ages. But language as we know it, today, isn’t any better. Can you express the full power, the unchecked strength of anger, in words, on a page? How spontaneous love is, or how destructive envy can be if you do nothing? Guilt, shame, joy. I can’t describe any of it.

Can you?

Here I sit, in this dingy little office, watching the birds come and go, free to whatever their whims are. A question pops into my head. “Would you rather be a disgruntled Socrates or a happy fool?” Sighing, I glance at the clock. And I STILL have a lot to do if my novel is to come to life. The plotline means nothing. I envision great film-makers at this point of writing; they have a plot, but it is by no means complex. It is the telling, or rather, the showing, that makes a storyteller good. How the teller empowers the story with emotion, with expression, making you feel as scared, angry, tired, jealous as if you were really there. As if the sun was beating upon your face and the salt of the sea irritating your nostrils, and you know, that you are there, and that the storyteller is a good one.

Some of these bards have stories, or make stories that haunt you, for hours, even days after, wondering; what happened, what was that all about and why the story ended like it did. I aspire to be like these people, these maestros, making words, film, music, bend to their will, to create anything, and have success in shaping it the way they want. They take the most basic ways of creating what they want; notes, angles, editing, mono-syllabic words, and use that to create their art. I see many would-be writers, going at it with the most complex language possible, in every word, trying to impress someone. Then, when someone criticizes their work, they reject the criticism, thinking that theirs is THE best, THE next Hemmingway.

A bird flies around, near my head. Unaware of the commotion it is causing, it flaps around madly, seeking an escape from the harsh, unnatural light of the fluorescent tubes, emitting their foul light over all. I can do nothing for this bird. I have to finish my story. It alights on an office block wall, observing everything with a keen eye, not daring to miss any potential predators or traps. Its dull yellow beak dipping slightly as it watches everything. Something moves, and it is in a panic again, resuming its desperate search for an escape of this nightmare.