Book-writing is a strange art form. On the one hand, it envelopes your entire being; but on the other hand, it is oftentimes difficult to put pen to paper without a drink or two down one’s gullet.
One day, a nearly-finished book appears shadowy, insufficient, and lacking in all its most important aspects. But the next — it is a thing of beauty, a thing of genius. Certain music brings the words to life, invoking thoughts of the sounds one would hear, and the scenes one would see, if ever the book were to be made into a motion picture.
And this is every author’s dream — yes? But it is a very obscure dream. Like blood in the veins; or wine through foggy glass.
But still, we must write. When no one is there to read the words, still we must write. And someday, if millions are there to read the words — still we will write.
A strange art form, this process of book-writing. It is little by little, and it wrings the blood from one’s skin. Yet the blood flows down upon the page — and when we are dead, we may look down from heaven, and see eyes upon our lost blood: eyes upon the pages we have written.
TEXT © C.M. BLACKWOOD 2016.