TITLE: As if I could change the World
By Evan Peck
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We have fully entered the internet age – an age where writing is published by scholars and schoolgirls alike. I can read a dissertation on the works of Darwin and moments later why Billy won’t call after the football game. For every word there are a thousand more, for every thought an overindulgence of expansions and deconstructions. Furthermore, no writer is untouched by criticism, a sandcastle in a rainstorm of ridicule.
So what do we do to have a voice? How do we speak in a crowded room negligent of etiquette and esteem? The writer’s commission is immediately more demanding than ever, necessitating a devotion to excellence that has been previously unprecedented. A writer must now carry a mandate of distinction and perfection in all written endeavors.
Each word should carry intentionality, each utterance carefully crafted in consonance and eloquence to make the intangible concrete and the weightless crushing. When we describe beauty, it should be devastating. When we describe pain, each syllable should penetrate affliction. We do not tell the reader what to feel, we make them feel it – opting to demand rather than inquire about sensation. A writer no longer describes the world, but carves a window of perception for the reader to look upon the mundane in astonishment, view the ordinary as irreplaceable, and the beautiful bathed in the glory of heaven itself.
And so the writer not only maintains responsibility for his creation, but for the very world he wishes to sculpt. As one who molds with hands unworthy to consistently uphold these standards, I can only hope to persistently fashion and shape my writing so that my work may exist not only in spite of the storm, but stand as a beacon within it.
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