The Role of the Writer

Prose. Poetry. Recipe.

I’ve been considering the role of the writer. Writing is the most complex of art forms. The writer must endeavor to achieve the freedom of a painter. Words should be brushed instead of written. One believes that a writer cannot hide behind his ideas. He is naked. But he is not. There are moments, certain passages, when words are put forth like a vase of flowers. What did Van Gogh mean when he painted Sunflowers so crudely yet beautifully… Words are written for any number of truths. The best writing invokes and evokes and provokes.

     “For poetry was all written before time was, and whenever we are so finely organized that we can penetrate into that region where the air is music, we hear those primal warblings and attempt to write them down, but we lose ever and anon a word or verse and substitute something of our own, and thus miswrite the poem. The men of more delicate ear write down these cadences more faithfully, and these transcripts, though imperfect, become the songs of the nations.” (Emerson, The Poet)

     The role of the writer is to act as the intermediary between God and men. When I have no words it is time to cap the pen of vanity to listen to the nocturne of the cicadas and crickets and grasshoppers and katydids. The role of the writer is not to invent nature but to tell her story. The writer often steps into his own way. A true writer realizes this transgression and steps aside until he finds the message awaiting his translation. Whether such a message will become popular among readers is of no importance and the writer should attempt to make it within himself no concern. Because then he would bow to the false sovereignty of man instead of that of the earth and sun. A writer must cast aside the clatter of man to uplift nature and if he cannot then he must write that, that the cacophony of man silences the hymning of birds. It may seem to the writer that he encounters duplicitous men more now than before. But the writer must not become so consumed with today as to lose sight of days. Man has always had to walk forward beneath his own weight. How does that weight feel in the presence of birds? It is a mistake to compare it to that of other men. The writer has his individual song and he should sing no other.

     You think this is all well and good in the transcendental New England of yore, but of what possible application does it have today in the parking lots of shopping center superstores and in pharmacies and politics and an inflated economy? The ego of man has always been inflated. The role of the writer is to write his days among all days, not his days as if there have been no others nor won’t be.

     “If there be any man who thinks the ruin of a race of men a small matter, compared with the last decoration and completions of his own comfort,—who would not so much as part with his ice-cream, to save them from rapine and manacles, I think I must not hesitate to satisfy that man that also his cream and vanilla are safer and cheaper by placing the Negro nation on a fair footing, than by robbing them.” (Emerson, Emancipation in the British West Indies)

     Written nearly one hundred and eighty years ago, the details within the actions of man may have changed but not his character. We still prefer the commodity of ice cream over the liberty and peace of mankind. In fact, we prefer it even more.

     The role of the writer is not to be confused with the responsibility of the writer. Responsibility is intrinsic in any true Art. Society will always tell the writer what he should write, but only the writer knows what he ought to. What must I say? I consider this often. I waver often. I conclude that Art is serious but not deadly serious. There must be joy within the gesture, the brushstroke, the ink-scratch, the thought. And the writer must be brave, for he should be free to err but is often pummeled by society’s fabricated cost. And so he should write that, too. And he will be pummeled again.

     Whether the writer spends his time in the city or the country is of no difference, though I much prefer to be surrounded by cows than people. The squawking of chickens or man is equally natural, though to my knowledge my hens have never lied. If the writer makes the city his subject he’ll first need a rag to clean it. Though the country scribe will need to learn the constipated language of corn and wheat and soy. At last, the true writer has his own language which he must use to navigate his thoughts to interpret the message of his God. 

The Writer

Hot rain resurrected to the sky

gowned in sunlight

I wanted to think incredible thoughts,

but the earth said to me:

Bow your head

to drink.

Summer Mint Ice Cream:

1 3/4 cups grass-fed whole milk

1 3/4 cups grass-fed heavy cream

¾ cups local honey

1 cup, loosely packed, garden mint

2 pastured large eggs

Whisk eggs in a bowl large enough to fit all the ingredients. Chop mint to desired texture (I prefer mine finely chopped). Place remaining ingredients into mixing bowl and thoroughly combine. I do not temper the base as I feel it reduces the quality of good dairy. Pour into ice cream maker. Voila. Ice cream without slave-trade sugar and soy-lecithin.