There are brushes for brushing on, brushing out, brushing off. But is there a brush for brushing in? Does the brain work that way? Can a writer slowly brush details, and thoughts and emotions of a tale into a reader’s mind? Is this the magic of writing?
I’d always thought the magic was to have a picture, even a film, of something in my head and to place squiggly black marks on paper that would put those same pictures into a reader’s mind. Those black marks were the magic carpet that transported my imagination into the minds of others whom I may never meet.
I’ve tried to respect that magic, but now I think I’ve been limiting myself by seeing hard, black (or green or blue or red or yellow) marks as my only instrument. I need to soften the edges and brush, softly, stealthily transferring images and anguish and joy and action and desire into another’s mind and soul.
For good writing is certainly more than an intellectual exercise on the part of the writer or reader. I must learn to paint from my gut, too, brushing on, brushing over and brushing in the magic.