So there I was, singing away on some hymn like I usually do, glad that it had four verses 'cause that meant that I could try to sing all four parts (not at once, although some claim I try that too), when a thought crossed my mind:
Monday, August 16, 2010 at 9:54PM in Faith and Church, Life in General, Writing and the Arts | tagged Music, Worship, Writers Just finished The War of Art by Steven Pressfield. It's a book about the struggle to create art, to live to our higher calling, and to be and become what we are intended to be. And it has entered a very select category for me: Books That Changed My Life.
If you think that's hyperbole, think again. Pressfield nails three concepts that any artist -- indeed, any human -- struggles with daily:
Wednesday, March 17, 2010 at 12:09PM in Faith and Church, Life in General, Writing and the Arts | tagged Books, Writers (or, Writing Ain't Beanbag)
I've been trying to get back into the blogging mode, doing something every day, for about a month. And it ain't easy.
The job seems to take more and more time; I'm often in the office by 6:30, or even earlier. The club work takes its toll, as well. Then there's the everyday stuff of life: paying bills, keeping the files sorta current, yard work. There's the small contribution I make at church. And somewhere in there is time with my dear wife and my two sons.
So, it's hard to make the time to write, and revise, and research, and revise again. Then post, and see if anyone reads and responds, and respond to them in return. And so on, and so forth.
The problem, of course, is that "can't never could" and each of us is given the same number of minutes each day and if you want to be a writer then you write, that's all, and whining about it or blowing it off or saying "manana" only means you're a wanna-be.
So, for anyone who drops by -- I'm starting today to get back into the Daily Grind -- and I don't mean coffee.
(Posted at the Texas Observer, her "home" paper)
I envy all you people in Texas. No, really, I do. You got to know Molly for many years, while I only discovered her when I read "Shrub" for the first time in 2000.
It's funny -- words were Molly's stock in trade, and are supposedly mine as well, and yet at this moment words don't seem adequate. We all know Molly was insightful, and incisive, and vibrant, and caring; that she was able to carve right to the core of an issue in just a few strokes of her pen, and still do it with a twinkle in her eye; that she was often angry, but never hateful. But we could go on and on, saying more and more, and it wouldn't be enough. The force of Molly's life was greater, even, than all her words.
So, instead of longer and longer collections of words, here are three short sentences to say how I feel:
Bruce Maples, Louisville, KY
