Skip to main content

Think of me...think of me fondly, when we say good-bye.....

Read an article today on Kurt Vonnegut's newly released, While Mortals Sleep, out last month--- to my knowledge, his third posthumously released work and one can only hope, it will not be his last.

Vonnegut Wooden Nickel


This comes only several months after the release of Mark Twain's Autobiography---kept under wrap
s for 100 yrs per the author's own explicit wishes.

And there have been so many other posthumously released works---- some that spring to mind, Stieg Larrson's Millennium Series (Girl Who....) trilogy, Robert B. Parker's Painted Ladies, Douglass Adams' Salmon of Doubt....but there have been so, so many others.

It is so tragic that death can cut short the life of someone who still has so much to say to the world. These artists have given themselves to the world in the form of their printed words. And the world certainly believes these artists belong to it. At least with the posthumously released works, it feels a little like we have not yet lost the dear friends we have grown so close to.

The idea of what we leave behind can give most people pause. No one wants to think about the end. In fact, most people probably refuse to think about the end, and because of this they are unprepared for what they should leave for posterity.

Mark Twain had it right.... composing a work for the specific purpose of being released after his death. I can only imagine how freeing his writing of the Autobiography actually was. Without the care and concern over what he had written as he would long be gone when the words made their way out into public view.

I hate to think that so many words may not be written or may not be released because of the care and concern of what people might think of it. Or, that so many authors write only what they believe others want them to write, instead of writing in their true voice speaking their own true words.

I say writers should take a re-write of the song "Live like you're dying." Every writer should Write like they're dying. Their words shouldn't be dictated by the fear that someone might not like what their words say. Not everyone will be the next Vonnegut or the next Twain, but without actually writing the words, the next Vonnegut and Twain may slip through the time-line of the world's history, unknown and unheralded.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A to Z reflections....

Another A to Z challenge comes to an end--- another collection of posts and poetry have been written, another deep breath of relief is released. For my fellow bloggers that survived as well, it's another 'challenge-completed' notch carved into the writing desk. I've come to enjoy my yearly foray into the world of all things alphabetical. This was my third year, though it was only the second year I had a workable theme (which made the challenge substantially easier than the first year I attempted this challenge.) And, though my first year was difficult because my focus was so scattered, I found this year was more  difficult because I lost the enthusiasm that came with the first year excitement----excitement which helped me plug along until the end of the challenge. Year 3 was a success in the sense that I completed the challenge, though, this was the year that almost wasn't---- Somewhere about a third of the way through the challenge, I seriously considered

A million lives, beneath a single sky.....

Though our feet leave different prints,our tongues sound different words, there's a mirrored rhythm in the beating of our hearts. Though born in different worlds, our eyes sharpened 'neath different moons, there's an unspoken truth in the warmth of our touch. We may walk in different strides and dream different dreams, we may speak in different voices, maybe swim in different streams. It's plain to see, when dark night falls, as all the stars shine through, that underneath it all, there's no difference 'tween me and you.

Bitter Honey

Weaving dreams of beguiling gold, a future's price for happiness. What secrets do you, determined, hold? asks the summer wind's soft caress. A guarded name, a hidden hope. Spinning wheels clutching time, grasping straw that falls away, What dreams may come, we soon may find, won't recall at end of day. A cherished life, a memory lost.