Imaginative Writing Vs. Writing Skills

Imaginative Writing Vs. Writing Skills


By Dennis L. Siluk
Jan. 12, 2005

I have letters, real letters I paid good money for them, one from Mary Renault [a writer of some 17-books, died I think in l984], one from Hemingway, one from Napoleon himself [1806], a note from the Senator of Paris, Victor Hugo [l840’s], and several others, you want to see bad writing, this would be enough to flip a hamburger off its grill. But you know it’s just the way life is (a part of our past generations). Someone once said, referring to the difference in imaginative writing vs. writing skills, “If I had no writing skills at all, but a good imagination, that would do in selling books, its been proven many times over; but if I had only writing skills, and no imagination, don’t try to write a book. [Something similar to that.]” Then I got thinking of some folks who write twenty paragraphs of whatever, and at the end of the whatever, say nothing. I wonder where they fit in.

I suppose it is like a handsome guy or lovely lady with no personality. Thus, it does not matter how smart one is or good looking, dead meat or spoiled meat is uneatable either way.

Ah! Yes, yes, fate seats a skeleton at every table does it not; and hissing dribbles down ones lips out of discontentment over such matters. It is to some, ‘bitter delight’ no matter what, for such to find a lovely misspelled word, or imperfect sentence: a feverish heaven of his hell, one might say. Thus misery ebbs out of his pale mind, and creates its own kind of pleasantness. Lets enjoy writing, is that not what this is all about. If need be, if it goes for a Pulitzer, we can always hire a ghost-writer. The spoken and at times broken word, when it becomes too much work, or not fun at all, who will care to write [?] Who wants to go back to school for 7-more years and learn the mine or grammar? Then come back and write for the UK [no disrespect intended, but I’d head on to ’60-minutes’]. Some of us are content being a Private in the Army, some want to be Officers, so let it flow, whatever floats the boat. The UK is like a nice red apple tree, and I like red apples, not green.

Some people that like green apples are schooled in mad desires, somewhere in their human history, their fragile past—such a shame, they never ate a red apple, or ate too many of them. In consequence, one keeps swimming in an empty gulf, when he should be resting his brain that’s over taxed; it is more of a medical condition than a syntax delight. But this is the way things are, it is easier to correct another’s grammar than to correct one’s own mind, make it healthy, which would take much longer, of course.

Where do we find such people: most likely, sitting at home across ones lamplight; weaving silence and grief—their inner light is cast out by inner shadows? These types of beings are lost at sea “Ah! Look!” There, they’re go….now all I hear is the mindless clamor of echoes, or is it the gulls.

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