Last of a Dying Breed
I consider myself so. Perhaps the breed is extinct. That it has died off long ago. It probably did, given the talent that’s pushing out fiction today. A lot of writers with, in one hand, a thesaurus, and in the other, an outline on how to write an effective story. I’ve read a few of these modern day authors. Generic. Extensive vocabularies that merely demonstrate an author’s verbosity, but hardly achieve the emotion that their predecessors could convey in a few words of common language. Typical scenarios that aren’t reinvented, but simply reworded. If the breed has been long dead, then I consider myself one that is risen from their ashes.
The writers who learned form and technique from the very essence of what writing is: life, revised. Not taught to them, but rather, what they taught themselves. Through experience. Through genuinely earned wisdom, not borrowed. Those who got their hands dirty. I admire few, but them, I admire most. Those who did not write stories, but whose stories wrote themselves. Writing is instinct, not necessarily a discipline.
I don’t hear of these writers all that much anymore. It’s something that bothers me.