The Aspiring Bard

photo via unsplash I recently read a short story that brought a lump to my throat and tears stinging at the back of my eyes. And I loved it. I love art that makes me cry. Which, at first glance, is weird, because I actually hate crying.  I generally resist the shedding of tears if I'm possibly able to do so. I avoid situations where I might be tempted to cry. But if your art brings me to tears, I will gather it to myself in a loving embrace and hawk it shamelessly to all of my friends and relations and remoter cousins to the ninth degree. It's not the tears, themselves, that enamor me so. It's a deeper involvement of which the tears are simply a result. It's the discovery of a thing so wonderful and real that I forget that it's simply 'another piece of art'. It's the masterful touch that reaches down to my depths, stirring up things I'd almost forgotten were there. It's the careful weaving of a net that catches and tumbles me...

There were 5 people (5 whole people) who were good enough to show interest in the snippet of my novel-in-progress that I posted a couple of weeks ago. I know, I know, that sounds a bit pitiful, doesn't it? But those 5 people are 5 more than have been interested before. And for a writer as unassuming as myself, that level of interest is enormous. It means that, maybe, there are even more (non-relative) folks out there who could possibly care about the people and the worlds and the stories into which I've poured my creativity and prayers and energies. And that is an encouraging thought. I have reached a point where I write mainly for an audience of two: God, and myself. And I am well pleased as long as I know that I'm consistently pushing towards fulfillment of His standards and the increase of my own ability. But still, appreciation from other human beings is rather nice, and of course, the day will come when I'll no longer be able to increase my abilities on my ...