The time has come to remedy my cunctatiousness in posting.
I recently spent a few evenings, when time was spare, in copying all the poems on this blog into one book. It was a good occupation, for it has never been my discipline to write in one place. From years past there are boxes of loose pages and half used notebooks tucked in my parents cellar, up 'til the present when Word documents are scattered through my laptop. This exercise of copying served to inspire a more inclusive view of my work and gave recognition to its continuum.
The transference of words from pixel to paper was performed with ink and nib. That was half the pleasure of the task. This simple tool served Shakespeare well enough - though perhaps if he breathed today he would consent to use a typewriter.
I have of late been afflicted by bibliomania. This is not so harmful as the word portends - my disposition is no more antic than usual; largely so. Perhaps it is obvious that my reading, never of a fixed breadth, has turned to the Bard for inspiration; no death for him I pray.
Will writing in the prosaic fashion exhibited here mark me as a plain imitator? I say not, for it is the best and finest employment of words that the ordinary is viewed through the glass of beauty, and thus all may know that the ordinary is beautiful. And it joys me so to say it so.
So I have thought of late upon the writing of a play. I was recommended to, "...avoid obscure circumlocutions." Indeed that is good advice, but in truth the word obscure may be forfeit in this case.
It seems the trick will be the invention of a story to hold the audience in thrall. I have plenty of poetry I could turn to the sense of the characters. The construction of a natural dialogue may be learnt by practice. It is in keeping with the habit of other playwrights that the skeleton of the plot can be borrowed from any ready source. Some legend from antiquity may serve well when it captures me rightly.
Let time tell.
Picture by William Blake