Lovely summer morning to all of you!
It's finally July, with hot dogs, lemonade and lots and lots of sunscreen for the Heliophobics like me. Not to mention my favorite hometown event, the Cache Valley Cruise in. Where old cars get glossed up like new and cruise down main street on a balmy Saturday night. But before the main event, cars park at the local fair ground for bragging rights, haggling buyers, and big-time stories of how they got, or almost lost their pride and joy.I could spend all day there perusing hot muscle cars and their hard working owners, but my camera had another idea. Every so often, between the pristine white Camaro and the Sapphire Studebakers, a unique piece of art catches my lens. I'm not sure why I like it. Maybe because there's a story in there somewhere, or maybe because it shows true to life and time. Maybe because it sticks out like a sore but prideful thumb. Its something that dares to be different in a world of spit and polish. I envy it in a way.
It reminds me of one angelic critique partner of mine that dared to throw her memoir out for the whole world to see. Her voice rang proud and clear in her writing, and true to her young age. I loved it because it was raw and different and brave. Much like the cars at the show, it didn't try to polish into something it wasn't. A rare glimpse into history that, if modified, may have lost part of itself under all that luster.I envy her too in a way, because she knows the raw edge of her writing and she has the pride to embrace it.
Friends, don't forget your edge when you sit staring at a blank page. Its what makes you unique. I know there are mountains of books published on the writing craft, but if every rule is followed, we'd wind up with cookie-cutter stories. I don't think New York wants that. They still angle for something unique. Much like my camera lens.
