Do you ever feel like you have a masterpiece inside of you - something of grandest proportions -- but when you try to draw it, it comes out looking like a stick figure?
"You're more poet than anything." I folded my arms and glared at Ian. He sat perched on the edge of the roof, dressed like an adventurer. I coveted every part of his outfit -- the breezy shirt made of course cloth, the sturdy breeches, the leather boots that laced up to his calves, the dagger on his hip. Tomorrow he would set sail to a life I craved more than anything. But did he appreciate his opportunities? No. And I hated him for it. "Do you despise poets, Ingrid?" His voice was sad, but a grin twisted at the corners of his mouth as he finished his question. Those blue eyes of his cut in my direction with a teasing flash. "They don't DO anything." My thoughts and emotions ran in torrents, but I could see his flowing smoothly and quietly. Even in his uneasiness about the morrow, his face was a peaceful as a child falling asleep in his own bed. ...
I know what you mean...most of the times with me I'll be thinking something wonderful, but that translation to written word just jumbles everything up. Rather frustrating.
ReplyDeleteI remember a quote from a famous author (I forget who) who said something to the effect of what a ticklish procedure it was to peel a masterpiece out of the brain and put it onto paper. ;)
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