I got an email today from my friend Chris, who is in Paris for a 6-month assignment. As always, I loved his wry observations and his beautiful writing. He paints such vivid pictures with just a few words. (“It’s like a mental hospital, only without doctors and less social.”)
I found myself missing his voice, so I visited his blog. What a humbling experience. Not in a thousand years would I describe morel mushrooms “as symbols of the heart-crushing ephemera of spring.”
I spent much of the morning resolving to bring more poetry to my prose.
But a few moments ago I had a revelation: My writing isn’t as profound or philosophical as my friend’s. But that’s OK. I’m not as profound or philosophical as my friend, either.
One of the hardest things for most writers is—ironically—also one of the simplest and most fundamental: