To be told that one is brilliant, yes. Want.

To feel it, want that more. To be it: Want that most of all.

To give written voice to that breathtaking, self-created turn of phrase. To be able to bring one’s self to tears—for the right reasons. To describe something in a way that makes even the writer want to read it again. To make the characters live. Want. Want. Want.

Do people who are truly brilliant ever consider brilliance as an internal measure of  themselves? Do they want it? Or are they too busy just being it? When is brilliance a thing that is apparent and indisputable?  When do you know whether you have it, even in its smallest spark? Is it a striving? Or is it the lights-on of everyday existence?

Does brilliance reside in the reader’s understanding of it? Or is it just there, beyond taste and transitory judgment? Who knows? And who gets to say?

Dear friend Melody says “Well, maybe it’s good that you don’t see your work as brilliant. I have to wonder how many writers out there think their work IS brilliant, but they’re really shit sandwiches. I would think if you considered your work brilliant, you’d never try to perfect every word and phrase and page.”

That’s true.

But the wondering? That’s the rub.

In that ether of not-knowing, of struggling daily, of seeking to impose meaning where none exists naturally, of finding the delight and the music…in all of that, one wishes one could leave that question behind. Writing is the marathon in which one never quite reaches a finish line. The  astronaut who never quite made it to the moon. The…well, you get the idea.

It is a far different thing than self-doubt, this seeking-out of the Elusive Thing. I want it, the Brilliant. I’m willing to work for it. Will Work for Words.

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