A Fore Thought...

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     A writer's job is to tell the truth. 

    And it would seem here we run into problems right off the proverbial bat. The truth, as I see it, is just that––just as the truth you see––is true. Or true to you. The problem should be apparent. And if so, that's usually 51% of the battle. Yet, if one is still flailing without measurable success on grasping a sense of reality, and keen on denying me my own, then how do we sort this out? Perhaps a change in job description would help.

    A writer's job is to relay only facts.

    And if to whom those facts are relaid remain predisposed to the same tenants of rational discourse––any evidentiary finding of fact, by shear definition, is incontrovertible. So now it's case closed and problem solved, right? No? So, if it's NOT quite yet time to start singing, "Good-Night Irene" what then is the problem?

    A writer's job is to understand the problem. 

    Let's start with that––because if understanding the relationship between truth and fact is unmanageable by direct examination of each, that would seem to accurately describe the problem right there. Now what? Confronted with the ever looming disparities between truth and fact without any other clear conception of the problem on the horizon––the danger is real and implicit if when any gesture of remedy might instead be taken as an act of tactical maneuvering or offencive––one that would (and appropriately so) call for an immediate and counter act of defensive retaliation (Wow. Scratching his head NOT even three-full paragraphs in and somehow we've arrived at the rules of engagement of war. This can't be right?).  

    A writer's job is to make peace between warring factions. 

    Just as there are those who see a slimy subjectivity being passed around one degenerate to the next, muddying their already diluted deeply held beliefs denying a more just prescience of the problem, I say exacerbate if we must, but take another step in closer––and start looking at what can reconciled––as the problem itself that needs addressing.

    A writer's job is to suppose ALL these things. 

    Nothing happens without the other. The light without the dark. The forest without those who seek to exploit its resources. We only defy truth when it is our own truth we turn against. Habitual, almost imperceptibly we will ALL become that which we stand against, almost without trying––if we allow ourselves to. And here at long last we find our litmus test. What is it that we are trying to do? By what means do we seek to accomplish such? And for what do we hope these things might accomplish? And the one question to ask perhaps most importantly out of ALL of them is why? As simple as a child might repeatedly and annoyingly ask, why? And why ask why you say? I don't know, but keep asking––it's my job. 


Picture, if you will, in your minds-eye everything you assume to know of the heart of Mother Teresa, suddenly & without warning dropped into the soul of Robert Mapplethorpe ––

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