The Written Word

While driving to Chattanooga this morning I was thinking about a book I'm reading, which prompted me to ask Maribel the question, "What is good writing?" We kicked that question around for the 20 minutes it took to reach town, generally agreeing that good writing is determined by the author's intent and the reader's reception. Did the author meet his/her own expectations and those of the reader? Our conclusion seemed reasonable but to me did not seem complete enough so upon returning home I Googled, "What is good writing?" The number of hits was staggering and each of those I read seemed to approach the subject from many different directions, from correct grammar to prosaic style and everything in between. I quickly got wrapped around the axel, more confused than when I started. 

I tend to look at writing as being in one of two categories; informative/educational writing and writing intended to provide pleasure. There is writing that for me crosses over, such as a biography of an historical figure which provides both information and pleasure. My reading about the governmental structure of Botswana would be strictly for information and I might add painful. The Hobbit on the other hand has given me many hours of relaxing, pleasurable escape. 

The book that I am reading and that started this inquiry is Bruce Catton's America. It is a compilation of excerpts from many of his works. The following paragraph is from his book Waiting for the Morning Train, and describes the gradual disappearance of Civil War veterans from Catton's boyhood home.

"In their final years the G.A.R. men (Grand Army of the Republic) quietly faded away. Their story had been told and retold, affectionate tolerance was beginning to take the place of respectful awe, and in Europe there was a new war that by its sheer incomprehensible magnitude seemed to dwarf that earlier war we knew so well. One by one the old men went up to that sun-swept hilltop to sleep beneath the lilacs, and as they departed we began to lose more than we knew we were losing. For these old soldiers, simply by existing, had unfailingly expressed the faith we lived by; not merely a faith learned in church, but something that shaped us as we grew up. We could hardly have put it into words, and it would not have occurred to us to try, but we oriented our lives to it and if disorientation lay ahead of us it would come very hard. It was a faith in the continuity of human experience, in the progress of the nation toward an ideal, in the ability of men to come triumphantly through any challenge. That faith lived, and we lived by it. Now it is under the lilacs." 

There were times in my early life when I thought about being a writer; was in fact encouraged to try it by several of my university professors. But I didn't have the talent, and I knew it. There are so many good writers, and when I read their work and something like Catton's paragraph above it just blows me away. And sometimes it makes me sad. There are two men that I knew and respected. Two men who played a large role in my life and who are now sleeping "beneath the lilacs". They were men who, because of the qualities they had and how they lived their lives deserve to be remembered; deserve to be written about. No one will write about them. I have tried several times over the years and failed miserably each time. I still have hope that maybe someday something will click and I can do the job.

I am glad that there are still books. I will happily go to the internet for information I want, but for pleasure reading I want a real book with paper to smell and pages to turn. An end table with a bowl of popcorn and a lamp with just the right amount of lumens completes the scene.