Writing is the embodiment of aspiration.

It begins with the will to overcome the unanswerable statement of a blank page.

It proceeds in the blind ambition of being read and comprehended.

It strives to commit to a more permanent memory the thoughts and ideas of the writer.

As often as not, the written word is as quirky and unreliable as any memory, easily lost or misplaced, often transcended by thoughts that spring in the wake of ages, be they moments or millennia.

What marks a great writer is the knack of stating what simply must be stated, and all the accolades that come, stem from the simple obviousness of this to the reader.

We are so much more than biology allows us, and yet we comprehend this on nature’s clock.

The written word does not discriminate between the dead and the living, allowing children of the past and present to congregate in uncharted futures.

Writing is simply a manifestation of the invisible hand, the human spirit, a part of us set apart from us in the moment of its creation.

By writing down our thoughts and feelings, our facts and fancies, we assert that there is so much to us that it is necessary to set some of it outside ourselves, freely given and freely received.

The price we truly pay for reading is the time and attention we spend breathing life into these ashes, making a home within our hearts and minds for the aspirations of others.

It should not seem strange then, that writing itself exacts the pains of labor upon the writer, and excites the pleasures of intercourse within the reader.

Nor is it so surprising that we take it, like ourselves, so much for granted.

The mystery of it is naked to us, and we unconsciously avert our eyes, even as we peer avidly into its glory, feasting on the beauty and sensuality, the brutality and severity, taking part in the dance with our eyes closed.