"God, I hate war," Amela declared... "Hate it, hate it. What a waste of lives. A waste of the world...it's throwing diamonds into a ditch. It's throwing babies into a ditch, for all the good it's ever done."
"That's a good way of putting it," said Jackie slowly... "That's the poet's way," she added, with apparent admiration. Then her voice hardened. "The poet's way out. ... War is savage -- say that. You'll always have a poem. Say it's repulsive. You'll never be wrong."
it's easy to write about bad things. easy to write about evil, about the perpetrator. there's no challenge in sympathizing with a victim. you know what makes you shiver, you know what makes you cry.
but do you know what makes those tears stop? what makes you really, truly happy? can you empathize without experience something that so many people spend their entire lives chasing in vain? can you remember the sun while you frown? can you capture your feelings in words?
it's easy to alienate the unhappy, not hard to revive sorrow -- yet difficult to resuscitate dead smiles and impossible to prescribe an unbroken heart.
when you write something personal, you risk a sort of greeting card sentimentality that could potentially discredit any piece of work--- but you ride much closer to that borderline when you write sweeter things.
why do we have this tendency to frown at cheery work and dismiss it as "cheesy?" have we come to expect discord? accustomed ourselves to sadness? do we seek depression?
shit, what am I doing again?
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