Who wants to die a sad and broken person like Melville — show of hands? One berates the ether doggedly with “this is me” effluvia.
When, what, how much to reveal vexes continuously. Thrust, parry, withdraw, resurge, repeat.
To trim word fat I start by oversaying things, then draft toward undersaying them, slaughtering adverbs. The siren’s call is to underestimate my reader. It’s hard to allude, only, and let her reach her own conclusions.
On the other hand, I haven’t dared to paint other than with what obviousness I can summon. I’m not confident enough to be more expressive and abstract, for all that I adore that style. Soldiering on, however: One brush stroke leads to another.
(Copyright 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.)