Writing Instrument

We think we know somebody. They think they know us. It’s nice because we can always be surprised. My son takes present-buying seriously. He went to a hippy shop and toyed with getting me a piece of angel merchandise or a Native American dream-catcher; but fortunately thought better. I received a hastily-wrapped book and opened it rather apprehensively, being choosy. It is Teach Yourself Creative Writing by Dianne Doubtfire, a suspiciously creative name. Its contents are eminently sensible for the writer aspiring to publication “in print”. But I didn’t feel like one of Ms Doubtfire’s intended readers, I mean one of her aspiring writers.

I feel like a different species, a kind of engineer who uses literature as medium, and subjective experience as content. Or perhaps an artist who paints from life, using words: inner life as reflected in outer life. A friend refers to his own “dear blog”. We have much in common: we love our writing instruments. I feel affection for my fountain pens and writing-books. They are sacred objects, as if the inspiration lies actually within them and I am only the catalyst helping them speak. Most of all I love my blog because I write that others may read, for a communion of souls.

My own desire is to be a writing instrument rather than a writer, the recipient of inspiration rather than its owner. Then I can focus on polishing and structuring the words: that is the engineering part. Without inspiration there is only concoction, like factory-made food. The other day we went to see Karleen’s mother in Mitcham for the day. She gave us some crabs to take home, recounting in graphic detail how they were live when she bought them. I was horrified, didn’t want the detail and couldn’t bear the thought of taking them home.