That is the practical - more ‘real’- reason my blogs dried out.

Most people spin words to impress. I firmly believe language is a means to expression, one of many. The least understood, the least effective; nonetheless, the influences around my early life preordained that language is the most pliable method I know.

Words are my gift. Somewhat late in life I realized, it may perhaps be the only one. Having taken the Parable of Talents to heart, I no longer shy away from pushing it into the light.

The primary act of creation is self centered. Even a commissioned craftsman, after pocketing the patron’s booty for pure survival measures, will find a dynamic of oneness with his art. An artist with his blank canvas, a modeler with the shapeless clay at his feet, a weaver silently considering the palette of her threads, an author holding his pen over the sheet for that one heartbeat before making the first stroke has this moment’s mad flash of the complete picture.

It is a vision only he can see; it exists nowhere but in the deep convolutions of his brain. It is his. That one second he first sees it, till the very last second before it occupies a tangible space, it is a Pygmalion conceived for his pleasure.

Entrenched in the rhythm of his synapses, his breath, ebbs and flows of his veins, this mystique being that is his but not his lives and plays.

My profession is to make words sensible.

Within a predefined timeline.

Till I got paid for word-smithy I never believed the two ever partnered well. Still don’t. Having turned in a series of personally un-enriching pieces of word craft last week, inwardly troubled about microscopic glitches that none could see but my pernicious creator’s instincts. Somewhere the discord rang. The stench of something not being perfect woke in the epicenter of my ego. The alarm began to toll.

But I had no time to let it steep, shut the computer, grab a coffee, take a walk, cradle the machine to another time and place before taking another peek. No time for further introspective glances.

The pieces were mailed. The minor irritants bundled along. A Project Manager somewhere had an invisible jet plane to catch. A Business Head had a thousand dollars to bring home. I had a salary cheque to draw at the month’s end.

The moment’s misdeed would have to be buried.

Ten more assignments had piled by then in the inbox. Our little commandeered artistry like misbegotten offspring, had to be left behind in the woods.