Monday, August 15, 2011
Hard times, come again no more...
But I can relate to that writer. I know exactly what he means, and I wonder -- how masochistic is it, anyway, to hope for bad fishing to get a good story? To have something to write about. This is wallowing in artistic angst; like a pig in a sty full of mud. Do I stink?
The worst times make the best stories. The dampest campfires have fuel enough to keep a story roaring, for pages. Unexpected outcomes and suspense keep attention and interest; like a lover, you swing hinged on their every word, and your stomach tightens at the pauses. What will happen next? Hard times are the stuff of which novels are made, and out of which art is created. And even though we sing come again no more, those hard times linger forever in our ears. Haunting. Giving us stories -- to write, to read, and to re-tell for dessert around a hardwood dinner table. You can even have seconds if you want....there is more than enough.
This past week held one of the best fishing days of the season. Heck, one of the best of my life. My mom (visiting from Nebraska), Jay, Eve, Banjo and I hiked to a high lake. Within minutes of the first cast, we had the confidence to wager and race to 10 (for the record, Eve won). It was great. It was fun -- a lovely time. It was "what high country fishing is supposed to be." Yet at the end of the day, hiking out, I couldn't think of anything to write about. I couldn't think of anything but wow, that was a wonderful day. Even now, I can't. It was great fishing. Enough said. And really, how interesting is that? Great fishing isn't the stuff of stories; rather, it's of dreams.
Yet, I can't say I hope to wake up anytime soon.