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Suppose someone gave you a pen — a sealed, solid-colored pen.
You couldn't see how much ink it had.
It might run dry after the first few tentative words or last just long
enough to create a masterpiece (or several) that would last forever and make a
difference in the scheme of things.
You don't know before you begin.
Under the rules of the game, you really never know.
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Actually, no rule of the game states you must do anything. Instead of
picking up and using the pen, you could leave it on a shelf or in a drawer where
it will dry up, unused.
But if you do decide to use it, what would you do with it? How would you
play the game?
Would you plan and plan before you ever wrote a word?
Would your plans be so extensive that you never even got to the
writing?
Or would you take the pen in hand, plunge right in and just do it,
struggling to keep up with the twists and turns of the torrents of words that
take you where they take you?
Would you write cautiously and carefully, as if the pen might run dry the
next moment, or would you pretend or believe (or pretend to believe) that the
pen will write forever and proceed accordingly?
And of what would you write: Of love? Hate? Fun? Misery? Life? Death?
Nothing? Everything?
Would you write to please just yourself? Or others? Or yourself by writing
for others?
Would your strokes be tremblingly timid or brilliantly bold? Fancy with a
flourish or plain?
Would you even write? Once you have the pen, no rule says you have to
write. Would you sketch? Scribble? Doodle or draw?
Would you stay in or on the lines, or see no lines at all, even if they
were there? Or are they? There's a lot to think about here, isn't there?
Now, suppose someone gave you a life...
（兼职编辑：张博） |
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发表于 2016-7-10 11:38:45