For some compelling reason I have the urge to talk about it tonight- this writing thing, although I’ve heard so many people analyze the “why do I write” question that that particular tired nausea has largely lost meaning, much less any appeal.
In SHOWBOAT, Magnolia sings
The game of just supposing
Is the sweetest game I know
Our dreams are more romantic
Than the world we see …
In A CHORUS LINE, Diane echoes this, if more directly
Kiss today goodbye
And point me toward tomorrow
We did what we had to do.
Won’t forget, can’t regret
What I did for love.
What I did for love.
What I did for … love.
So … I’ve been listening to you – all of you. There’s a collective restlessness. Isn’t there? Can you feel it? It’s not about writing, or the form writing takes. That’s just the means of communication – the best we know. Our companion, the thought that if we put it down on paper – somehow somehow if this time we get it right, or even close to right – maybe we will understand…
Understand what? By putting something into words am I suddenly going to understand something I can’t on my best day put into words?
Something is missing. I feel cheated. Where are the great artists? I mean, the sucking-in-of-breath-to-look-at-them paintings? Are you aware that for the first time in over 300 years, there is not ONE living classical symphony composer? Not one – Copeland was the last. And writers …
Cole Porter wrote
And authors, too, who once knew better words
Now only use four-letter words writing prose …
So something has ended. And I was born too late to be a part of it. And yet I feel like I’m a part of … something. And in listening to you, I know you’re a part of it as well. Do you feel that way? There’s a restlessness, a waiting, a desire for change, an anticipation …
An anticipation?
So maybe I’m not too late, after all. And you are not too late.
Maybe we all are early. A vanguard. Maybe something is coming, and we’re a part of the beginning of it.
Wouldn’t that be nice? I'd like to think so.
And how was your day?
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