I had a accidental skirmish near my favorite author, Ray Bradbury, once were on two legs at a aggregation signal, at the area of Wilshire Boulevard and Beverly Drive, in Beverly Hills, one summertime eventide.
I trademark it a tradition to have in my hip pouch what I call, "The Great Question." It is the single, supreme big enquiry that you can through to your favorite culture.
In this case, I asked; "What did you estimate of Francois Truffaut's moving-picture show copy of Fahrenheit 451?"
Without hesitation, he looked at me and replied, "It brought me to crying."
Me too.
Ah, isn't this what words should do, uniting in rife sympathy, creators, audiences, in groovy esteem of the possible, the sublime?
Compare this to the reality of energy for most writers who try to emanate lone that which will sell, that which will prestige to a inconstant bazaar.
Bradbury, for one, says you can't be a euphoric dramatist this way, difficult to create to the activity. In fact, he says specified an labor will solely product in end of the world.
You have to construct what you love, and forget more or less the marketplace.
When you do, you can wallow in your own work, and once it is first-class, it too, can carry you to smile, or to weeping.
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