Writers are Human

I had to make my most favorite writers human.

I have the tendency to place great writers behind glass, where I can’t touch them. When I sit down and read words that touch my soul, it makes me feel so small. Words do mean a lot to me. I often make them much bigger than what they are on first read( or first listen). So over the past few years I found myself in love with the writers who didn’t hide their humanity. In fact, they used their humanity as the basis for their works. I love Henry James and his eloquent writing. I got his journals and was slightly disappointed at his lack of elegance when it came to daily writing. One day he collapsed and simply described it as a “bad day.” There was no coquet. No romantic gesture by some well dressed woman who saw him go down. I realize that fiction isn’t supposed to be a mirror of our realities, but I couldn’t help but expect him to be as romantic as his stories. I think we all have these moments where the people we look up to aren’t what we expected. At the same time, it helps me to appreciate writers who share their humanity, the good, bad, and ugly that we stow away to fit the part. Bukowski, Rimbaud, Plath, and throw some Hunter Thompson in there, and a few other writing mentors that walked beside me, they all liberate me with their authenticity. I hope that I can liberate others the same way they did for me.