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Some Writing Comments
The Author's Art
By: Tom Hyland
Copyright: May 13, 2000
As Bill Shakespeare so aptly put it: "What's in a word?" EVERYTHING! The Author's Art is simply and purely, the use of words to communicate his or her specific message. If successful, the reader will understand the message ... whether or not he or she likes it, is another thing.
As a young lad, I had many teachers struggle laboriously to impart to me the proper use of language, in several and sundry manifestations: correct spelling, correct punctuation, correct grammar, diagraming of sentences, parts of speech, similes, metaphors, irony, personification, understatement, overstatement, strophes, antistrophes, and more, more, more!
As the years rapidly passed, and I progressed from elementary to high school, then to and through college, and ultimately to the boring "gobble-dy-gook" of the business world, my puny mind could not help but wonder: "why all this much ado about nothing'?" That is to say, one of my favorite authors of all time (besides the aforementioned Bill) has always been Samuel Clemens. Some of you young "whipper-snappers" might ask, "Who is he?" He was a great American writer and true wit who went by the nom de plume (pseudonym, or pen name) of Mark Twain. A-hah! Now you know of whom I speak.
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn what a magnificent adventure story! Have you ever read it? If not, please do so, you will be entertained, I promise you! Anyway, Mister Clemens had a very unique style which he employed in his writing art, as he chose to express his characters, and thereby himself, in the vernacular. Say what? It is the use of the common, everyday language of ordinary people in a particular locality, or region.
So, just what does that mean? In simplistic terms, he wrote the way people actually talked, with:
slurred words, improper spelling, incorrect grammar, and all the other "No-No's" we were taught not to do, using split-infinitives, dangling participles, and even the penultimate "taboo" of ending a sentence with a preposition! In short, Mark Twain was a maverick, a person who went "out on the limb," who "thumbed his nose" at convention and tradition, and yet was vastly successful! The proverbial "bottom-line" is that he really opened the door to allow others to write what they felt in the deepest recesses of their hearts, in short, to express themselves and their characters on paper, in the same manner as if they were actually conversing, face-to-face. To me, this use of language promotes not only a friendly tone, but also a tenor of understanding. It is not pretentious, or "high-fallutin," nor pompous, nor stiff. It is relaxed and natural.
If I am ever "discovered" and actually have some works published (for which I am paid real money) I would hope that someone, somewhere might recognize at least in some pieces, a style
somewhat similar to Mark Twain. After all, "Hope springs eternal," don'tcha know?
Anyway, back to our topic. As I rested on the sofa in my office this evening, suddenly there was the stark empty sound of silence, a shattering sound of nothing running in the background. It awoke me from a deep sleep. As the mammoth thunder rolled and billowed from a fierce storm outside, it was immediately obvious that the power was off in the entire neighborhood of Arcadia: no lights, no exhaust fan, no air conditioning, no refrigerator, nor freezer, no TV, nor computer RATS! No Juice at all!
As a "dirty, filthy, stinking smoker" it only took mere seconds for me to locate my trusty lighter, and light the first candle, which fortunately just happened to be quietly waiting there on the nearby coffee table. Voila! There was light now, small and feeble, but brilliant in the ink-like darkness surrounding me. As I then proceeded from room to room on my quest for other candles, the storm raged outside, "rumble, grumble, bumble, B-O-O-M ! Another thunderclap struck somewhere, as the lightning leaped and screamed in the distance.
As I climbed the basement stairs to reach the first floor, the ominous internal silence was now being pierced and shattered, over and over, by the screeching sirens of emergency vehicles, responding rapidly to this night of terror for those in need. One could hear them everywhere, racing to and fro, north to south and vice-versa, west to east and back, scrambling like ants at a picnic, or bees in a hive. The Police, Fire-fighters, and Emergency Medical Teams would be having a long, tedious night. A silent voice inside my head quickly whispers a prayer for the safety of all of God's children.
As the thought process pulsates in my brain, words and phrases start rushing and spewing forth, not unlike a whirlwind. As my anxious hand gingerly stabs the quill deeply into the sapphire liquid and scribbles runes onto the ancient papyrus, all else is insignificant - I must write!
As the ideas tumble forth, the only sound pummeling the air, over and over, is the "scratch, scratch" of the bird's feather on the ancient scroll. As the tallow flickers in the breeze from an unknown source, it is difficult to decipher the scribbles that the single candlelight renders asunder, almost like hieroglyphics.
As I ponder and weigh choices of uses of verbs and nouns, adjectives and adverbs, gerunds and participles, the capturing process is gradually succeeding. Scratch, scratch, scribble, scribble: quill to paper, pen to pad, fingers to keyboard, data to printer the method employed matters not, only the capture and submission of words, words, words, that is paramount now!
As the bolts from Thor, and the bowling from Zeus raped the high heavens, mortal man and his magnificent machines were wailing a mournful tune. An un-syncopated symphony, or rather cacophony, was beginning its powerful, pulsating, ponderous overture. NOISE, NOISE, NOISE!
All of this began somewhere around 7:40 p.m. or so, on Saturday, May 13th, 2000 in the area of Baltimore. By 9:40, it had clamored and clashed its seemingly endless crescendos and de- crescendos, and was approaching its Grande Finale. Now at 10:03 p.m., Mother Nature's boisterous orchestration has run its gamut, and seems finally done. Finito!
As the sound of silence now returns, with the exception of an occasional distant siren, I sit and write my tale. Why do I write? Because I must! I can't read very well by the meager light of one eight-inch tall, red Christmas candle. Tomorrow's challenge shall be whether or not I am able to decipher my own candle-lit "chicken scratches," so that I may enter this worthy effort of prose into my trusty PC. Hopefully, the "juice' will be back on, by then. (Note: it was, at 4:30 a.m.).
As I now wind down my quiet little syncopation of pen and paper, another thought leaps into my grey matter and bounces around a bit, not unlike the shiny metallic sphere which is "flipped" around in a pinball machine.
Mother Nature has just reminded us on Mother's Day's Eve, that SHE is still in charge! How Ironic !!!
Author's Note: By now you may have noticed that there has been a preponderance of paragraphs which start with the word, "As." In fact, I just counted them. Eleven out of sixteen paragraphs do so. Why? I really "dunno," it just seemed like a good idea at the time. I tend to strive to be different, however, some may think that I am just "nuts." I can only promise you one thing, which is: "In a hundred years it won't matter!" Perhaps we can "get together again" sometime. Who knows, you might even BUY one of my books someday, and actually read it! FAT CHANCE, you say . . . well anyway, have a Nice Day . . . and Thanks for reading me!
Tom Hyland
May 14, 2000
P.S.: Got Comments? I'm "all ears!" Email me: poesyco.bigfoot.com
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