Art and writing

IS writing truly an art form. After all, the only thing we as writers do is put some words down on a piece of paper, or int he case of this, we put some little digibytes onto microchips that are then displayed as words. Rembrandt, Renoir, even Jackson Pollock, they were artists - and brilliant artists at that, they took an image in their head and spread it onto a canvas in a manner which no one else could match. that is art.

I see so many pieces of art that make me jealous, envious of the gift which I lack. I cannot sing and I cannot paint. Hell, I can't even draw a straight line. If I were drunk, guess what, the painting would be even worse. Yet some of the best wordsmiths were absolutely lunatics; drinking as if everyday were a holiday with no limits. Can something like that really be considered art?

For me, I guess the answer is that it depends. Sometimes words are just that; a strong of characters placed together at random that make sense, but are not really thought provoking in any way shape or form. Correspondence I generate at my daytime job is hardly art.

But is any writing art? Yes. I think so. Last night I wrote a piece that originally began from a dream I had about being trapped inside a building with a white tiger prowling outside waiting to attack. Inside was my youngest son as a full grown man. There is meaning to this dream which plenty of arm chair psychiatrists can decipher, but I took one image and changed it into a different concept.

When I wrote my second novel "Fragments of Humanity" there was one basic genesis of truth to the story; the beginning. Yes, once upon a stupid day there really was a young Marine running away from teh Corps. Yes, that Marine ran into three other runaways at the bus station. yes, all four went to Las Vegas and were soon separated. that is where the truth ends and fiction begins. To me, it is art to take such a trivial even in the life of one fairly inconsequential former Marine and turn it into a graphic depiction of all that can be wrong in society. It is satirical and it is philosophical. It deals with the fragmented nature we as humans have evolved and it deals with a virtual caste system no one wants to acknowledge. All because thirty years ago, some young kid let the wrong head do the thinking.

Thinking with our dicks, that is what we do when we are young; far too often. Yes, that idiot was me. And while there is some kernel of truth to the beginning of the story, all that happens after is a piece of art. A picture of jumbled words and ideas in my head that came out onto paper in some fashion that told a story.

The best thing about art? Not everyone will like one particular piece. That continues to inspire new art. Language is the result of art. Civilization is the result of art. The first art? Attempts to communicate through pictures and then words. Is writing art? You be the judge.