I was hanging out with one of my guy pals last night discussing classes, majors, and how we are both praying to the Lord above that the semester will be over. It’s that time for all college folk: the post-spring break slump. It has us all banging ourselves over our heads with textbooks a la Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
I asked him what classes he was taking, and suddenly he got really excited. Overly excited. ‘Are-you feeling-well?!’ excited.
The class?
Creative writing.
Now mind you, this kid is pretty sure he’s the next James Dean. He’s a gearhead, a tough guy, someone who’s always made fun of me for being an English major and literature and language aficionado, and here he is, sheepishly admitting that he really likes to write poetry.
Karma, much?
Within moments we were swapping poems, chatting about alliteration and metaphor, and laughing about the poet’s mantra to ‘Show! Don’t tell!”
That adage on assumption haunts me.
The power of language is undiscerning in who it touches. It can awaken a passion that banishes even the most pervasive spring semester blues, and spur one on to create, to share a bit of oneself, to commune with something greater. It speaks to the soul in a way that nothing else does, whispering, teasing, inspiring.
Write on, closet poet, write on.
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