Appendage (n.): a thing attached to or projecting from something larger or more important.
After writing for more years than I dare remember, I often find myself guilty of becoming either too introspective or a bit boggled with silliness.
Not that I have any problem with introspection or silliness for that matter, but as a writer, your goal is to have readers and not just accumulation of work.
One school of thought is that most people want to read something deep and profound while another clown college contends that everything must be giggly and entertaining.
I have come to the conclusion that the true test of writing is working from an idea that is important, and using the best tools possible to carve out a message.
Maybe that’s the problem in our society today–we’ve forgotten what’s important. So what we have is a bunch of dangling appendages seeking homes on which to attach.
If all the ideas proffered in our time were traced back to an origin, they would often be considered homeless.
Therefore everything I write, feel and try to do is grounded in three central principles, and then I allow the ideas to grow like appendages from them:
- People are the closest thing to God we have on Earth.
- God is the closest thing to hope that we can muster.
- So we must muster the ability to get along with people so that we better understand God.
Everything else I do ends up being appendages to these three central themes. Sometimes it’s funny; sometimes it’s serious. Sometimes it’s confrontational, but it is never jaded.
For after all, the day I cease to believe in these three ideas that are important, everything I do will be a mere appendage–unattached to my own reality.
Thank you for enjoying Words from Dic(tionary) — J.R. Practix