by Yusef Raahman Sudah

Created on: April 27, 2010   Last Updated: January 08, 2012

I have chosen the craft of writing, hoping to learn how to express what  my mind's eye sees. The quantum place inside of me where new ideas are born is filled with regions of creative waiting to be discovered . I treasure new experiences and enjoy learning from others no matter their age, profession or wealth. I try to write about things I observe but I do not claim to be a fully a writer. I am not so arrogant as to assign myself such a title, to so would be to say I could flawlessly express my thoughts on paper. I struggle with words, I search my heart's wisdom to find vocabulary, phrases and the use of correct grammar to express a concept, describe an emotion or visit an unfamiliar place as well as to paint a clear picture of an event.

My efforts to put my reader in touch with a moment in time, or to give my reader a feeling what it is like to walk on cobble stone with a limb swagger in an unfamiliar town, to feel the depths of a misplaced moment of fear or joy often times evades me.

 When Pita, my blue red lorikeet,  struggled for breath in his last moments after I neglected to feed him for days because I was "too" busy. He lay in the my palms as I was tearfully begging him not to die. I can hear myself even now saying, "Buddy don't die! Oh my, buddy come back!" I found myself, a man that has won and lost many battles, a man that gives advise to persons of a wide variety of professions, standing crying and desperately trying  to save my dear bird Pita.

In a single second I failed twice, one to keep him alive and again to prevent the sobbing pain and horrible gut wrenching pain from flowing through my veins. He slowly died gasping for air in the palm of my cupped hands and I stood helplessly weeping. I, a sixty five year old man, sobbed holding my dying pet friend knowing I would never buy another bird. Even as I write these words I feel the swell of pain creep into my eyes.

Yet, in view of these handicaps, I continue to try to find my way though the blank page trusting that somehow I will find ways to combine my will to write with my limited competence as well as work relentlessly to find the craftsmanship needed to interest others in what I have to say. I am learning that writing is a craft that requires an accumulation of talents, skills, mechanical knowledge and life experience. But all of this may not be enough. Weaving a tapestry of words seems to require having an ability to make the soul of the writer transparent to his reader in order to make the language speak to the reader's interest.

A writer has only a brief number of words to capture his reader's attention. Unlike carving a wood sculpture or painting on canvas the tactile experience of the touch of wood or the visual vibrations of blues, reds, greens, and yellows color on canvas are not so apparent in writing. Clearly, a writer would be hard pressed to describe the radiance of blue red or the shape of a smooth well defined African giraffe three feet high sculpted from a redwood tree or a piece of drift wood found on an ocean shore. Yet these are the challenges that some "writers" have mastered. 

I love reading aloud in my privacy and listening to the words written by Twain, Yeats, Brown, Hughes, Shelly and King. I know that continuous study will help me and reading the best writers of the craft will sharpen my skills. I also know there are no guarantees by reading them that I will gain their talent. Nevertheless, I shall keep trying to measure up by seeking to find my voice in this mystical sea of the uncertainty of writing.  

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