I sit here thinking about words or rather the assemblage of same and wonder why sometimes the impetus comes along on its own and other times its seems a forced matter. What exactly causes the words to come? I question whether we, as writers, are endowed with only a limited number of opportunities or whether there is an infinite universe of permutations available to us. I hope for the latter, which is a rather selfish way of looking at the problem but it would seem the only practicable one.

I am talking about an infinite number of variations like the philosophical argument that postulates a roomful of monkeys at an infinite number of typewriters would inevitably produce Shakespearean works of literature but I for one doubt the premise, i.e. writing is merely a compilation of words rather than the ideas that propel them. It would seem some modicum of insight needs to serve as the basis of any definitive work.

Oh, to tap those ephemeral waters at will, that disquieting torrent that runs so deep within us. I suppose, that is the trick, to observe a silence long enough to hear those whispering undercurrents. Upon those soundless seas is borne the naissance of our collective literary dreams. As writers, we must navigate this bounding main of words and attempt to assemble some semblance of meaning from the teeming mass at our disposal.

At this juncture, it seems the salient point to address the issue of the well from which we draw the previously mentioned waters, i.e. vocabulary. I have been taken to task on more than one occasion for my over-dependence on an excessively large lexicon. This may be but to my mind this is the very sea of which I have been speaking. Finding new and possibly uneconomical ways of expressing common ideas is the very life bread of my craft. Maybe to others there is a divergence of view but at the least leave me to mine.

Since Hemingway (among others) pioneered a new, modern literature and ushered in an era of creative writing with an undue emphasis on economy of prose, writers with a proclivity for excessive verbiage have been left out in the cold, there to ply their trade forever associated with the dreaded DWM (Dead White Males) of the much maligned and purportedly antiquated Western Canon. This is perhaps the preeminent tragedy of modern writing. So then, this is the daunting task presented to me and other writers of my ilk.

Left to labor like latter day Don Quixote, we are forever tilting at the windmills of modernism that stand as colossi at the gates of what is acceptable as literature. The latter-day propensity for stripped-down prose puts me in mind of politics by referendum. It seems any half-baked proposition backed by enough money will pass regardless of how little intrinsic sense it may make.

I fear the day may come when a malleable public persuaded by moneyed interests to act against their self-interest will become a reality rather than a paranoid delusion. The populace will then blindly accept this new flawed paradigm simply because a misguided majority mistakenly awarded its imprimatur.

Meant ime, I try to control my overly-combustible emotions, to work them into a manageable corral so I can express myself without devolving into the overly sentimental to which I am sometimes prone. I will continue to worship undeterred at the altar of outdated verbosity. My fervent wish is to channel that long-windedness into something that will attain meaning for me now as well as in some unforeseeable future. My desire is that this realization will reap a harvest of hope and happiness on which to build a meaningful and eloquent life characterized by inspired creativity.

© Stephen Alexander 2009