An artist may paint a lifelike vase of flowers, throw buckets of paint at a canvas or cover a building with pink plastic and their work can still be considered worthy of commendation. No one seems to compare Salvador Dali with Vermeer or Christo with Michelangelo; in art individual expression is admired and encouraged.
I wished the same applied to the writers of prose; unfortunately we all seem to live in the shadows of such people as Eugene O’Neil, Tennessee Williams and Jane Austin. Critics, both professional and amateur, are always ready to pounce on us for the slightest grammatical error, misuse of punctuation or, what they consider, a questionable plot.
Always working to satisfy others stifles creativity and although we may have to comply with certain rules when submitting to publishers, we should put some time aside to “paint with words;” to do our own thing; to enjoy the process and to hell with what people think.
I wished the same applied to the writers of prose; unfortunately we all seem to live in the shadows of such people as Eugene O’Neil, Tennessee Williams and Jane Austin. Critics, both professional and amateur, are always ready to pounce on us for the slightest grammatical error, misuse of punctuation or, what they consider, a questionable plot.
Always working to satisfy others stifles creativity and although we may have to comply with certain rules when submitting to publishers, we should put some time aside to “paint with words;” to do our own thing; to enjoy the process and to hell with what people think.