It is late and I am tired

Everything I've ever read about writing emphasizes the importance of just that--writing. Writing every day. Writing whether or not one feels creative or inspired. Writing, perhaps, in hopes of finding creativity and inspiration. Writing even if it is late and one is tired.

To that general premise (to which I can only say that I aspire; even the effort of maintaining a blog monthly is something I can't always muster) I would hold up the contrarian perspective that the world is filled with those who have something to say and never do and those who have nothing to say and keep on repeating it. And that I would hope to avoid falling into the latter company.

And yet, what truly marks a work of genius? Simplicity. The ability to take a complex idea and put it into words that make the reader say, "Obviously. Even I could have written that." Daniel Quinn and Patch Adams come to mind, as does Malcolm Gladwell. At the other end of the spectrum is Salman Rushdie, though for me his linguistic trapeze act is a delight unto itself.

Which then raises the question of whether it is possible to ever fully delight in an idea with which one does not already agree. Quinn and Adams, for me, speak truths that seem self-evident. I am well aware of my biases (I see!, said the blind carpenter to his deaf wife, and picked up his hammer and saw), yet I wonder the extent to which these biases color not only how I read what I read, but in fact what I read. In other words, am I predisposed to only see that which I already believe?

It is late and I am tired. As my dad would astutely observe, I have managed to fill four paragraphs with words without saying anything. Each keystroke is one more pixel of non-renewable energy, another toe in my already large carbon footprint. For all you writers out there--and I'm including myself in this admonition--write, yes, please write, and also maybe think, beforehand.