The incurable itch
There are times when
I delude myself into thinking I am a writer, but the reality might suggest that
all these years of blogging are pretensions to an ability I barely possess.
"An inveterate and incurable itch for writing besets many, and grows old
in their sick hearts." The Roman poet Juvenal's Satires X.
However, the
translation from Latin suffers from so many kinds of paraphrasing and
interpretation that it has become the more popular variation: "Writing is
an incurable itch that affects many." Whilst I might have that occasional
itch, it has become quite benign. I cannot be bothered to scratch it, nor is it
so serious that I need a salve for it.
It is like learning
to live with an infirmity; the inadequacy rings loud in your head, urging you
to stop and pursue something else that belies a modicum of talent. On the other
side, perhaps persistence counts for something. You do it long enough, it becomes
practised, and you grow better at it. You gain the confidence that the little
you manage to express can pass muster.
When I woke up just
25 minutes ago to think of something to write before the day's end, I felt it
might be a jumble of incoherent words landing in an order that might suggest
lucidity, but is clearly a malady bordering on insanity. Who really cares? Just
bash the keyboard with your thoughts and see how itchy you really can get.
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