I got to thinking this morning, sometimes we writers need to take a good long look at ourselves. Pretend we're onions and peel back the layers. Will today's writers be looked upon the same we look back at writers of the past? With respect and awe? Will the age of technology hinder that somewhat?
Nobody knows. So I think it's important we understand the kind of writer we are. What is our writing talent, exactly.
Every writer is different. No two are the same. Nor should they be. I can't imagine writing like Barbara Kingsolver or Joyce Carol Oates. I read their books and wish I had a brain like that. To have those kinds of words flow off the ends of my fingers would be like an anointed gift. A divine touch from above. Hemingway and Steinbeck and Fitzgerald, the way they used their words, few writers today can even be compared to them. Pat Conroy just blows me away. His novel, Beach Music, breaks all the rules. I lived in the pages of it for weeks.
Though I've been writing all my life, and have received wonderful reviews, I'm humbled as I read the classics. I may not ever be as prolific, as artistic, as wealthy and well-known.
But I can tell a hell of a story.
I don't think that will ever go out of style.
Blessings to you and yours.
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