The lazy art

And so dear non-existent readers, I confess to a penchant for Jane Austenesque style stories, whether novels or dramatised for the moving screen. Even the frivolous minutiae of hairstyle, dress style, decor and the manners of former times are the most fascinating of subjects to me.

Which is why my hope and fantasy of completing a novel will in all probability come to nought - I am too old-fashioned to be fashionable, and I am presuming my style of writing will be too labourious, restrained and earnest for the likes of the modern person. I should write for myself, but I do not know whether it is my best employment when so many other demands make themselves known to me.

I find writing to be the laziest and gentlest of arts - not that I am familiar with all artistic pursuits you understand. I have danced, worked tapestry, sewn and embroidered, but not painted, worked with clay or bronze, sung or played any kind of instrument, with the short-lived exception of playing one or two tunes on a guitar during my middle school years. But of these, surely writing requires the least physical expenditure or accoutrements. And that is possibly why it is my favourite, I am ashamed to say.

Words are abundant and free of cost, readily available to all - even to those who have no use of the sounds they make, for these are more important in their visual form to the dumb of tongue.

When I think further on that, these people are blessed indeed, for it is easy to erase the hastily written word, not so easy the spoken one - for once spoken a word cannot be taken back.