Friends, our craft are truly art forms in themselves. While we may appear similar to a scientist artfully uncovering the laws of the universe through mathematical deduction, or akin to the musician whose muses leave them with sounds rather than words, we are delightfully (or tragically) dissimilar. The dominion of art remains the pursuit of Truth; a mathematical blunder results in chaos, a flat note irritates the soul, a tainted colour in a painter’s palette inspires pity. The final conclusion one can certainly rest upon is that the magnificence lies in simplicity. 

          So what then makes the writer’s craft so different, you ask? Are we not using our twenty six letters of simplicity in endless pairings and fusings in much the same way as a painter may begin with his four primary colours and end with as many hues as discerned by the eye? Are we not playing our words as musicians, hoping to bring harmony from the arrangement of an eight note scale, concocting our magnum opuses?  Regretfully, I tell you, we are not. For if an artist’s aspiration is Truth, the writer’s dominion is Falsehood. The writer’s dominion is entertainment.

          Inasmuch as every hand that picks up an instrument is not equipped to recreate a masterpiece without arduous testing and diligent practise, the ease with which a “writer” grasps his utensil blindly sends him into the world of prose with illusions of grandeur and posterity. There is a certain amount of hopeless pride associated with pursuing a calling and developing a skill; a geneticist strives in his area of expertise, his secret wish to be the man behind the cure of a certain disease. The singer sees her name in lights, the actor dreams of his face projected on the screen, the young writer aspires for another five star vote, sure evidence of his skill.

          What vanity! Lo, what cheek!

The End

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