I’m not even sure who this guy is. I’d never heard of Tom Waits. However, the man has been gifted with an abundance of wisdom, or at least this one piece of spaghetti which stuck to the wall, and now I adore him.
The quality of writing has just plummeted. However, I believe it’s always been this way. Two hundred years ago, kids sold little pamphlets on the street corner, chapter by chapter making it out for public consumption at the rate of a dime per pamphlet. While Charles Dickens came out as awesome, how many hundreds or thousands died to obscurity, their pamphlets left fluttering in the wind, as no one would eve pay the dime. How many just gave up halfway through, throngs of peasants cursing his name for leaving off at a cliff hanger.
Fortunately in a generation books like Twilight will die off, left to obscurity. It will be a good day. The real quality novels of this generation will finally be revealed. The authors who penned them will be dead.
One of my favorite things about writing, in comparison to reading, is the quality of suffering. Suffering lends to the writing, the words flow like a river with a suddenly burst dam. When the suffering is gone, the words just don’t come as easily. They’re more mechanical. But man, in pain there is such beauty that comes forward.
So even if our world cannot create an exquisite suffering through books, I will do my darnedest to suffer and pour it elegantly into my own writing.