The Art of Ignorance I'm entirely too lazy to ever be accused of ripping off other people's material. The last book I read was one of the Harry Potter series. THAT took me forever, and not because I didn't like it. I did. It took me forever because somewhere -- I like to blame law school -- I got out of the habit of reading, though I managed to pick up a few less healthy ones in its stead. But we won't go into that. Those. Here. This stunted, near-negative education has served me well. I have forgotten so many words, so much of the rules of correct grammatical construction, I no longer have a clue what a partial present dangling participle is, or if one is, or if participle is spelled ple or pal... or pol. I revel in junk speech and bad writing for the sheer pleasure of it. Or them. And it's not just the presentation, kiddo, it's the ideas. Mine are fresh, unsullied by research or much more educated opinion. They burst from my mind as new things, and are addressed by me as if I was the first person to ever think of such wonders. It is a philosophy of life that has kept me, in general, very happy. I feel smart, whether I am or not. And I have good, forgiving friends, so rare are the occasions when I am told to shut up. I like to think that what my wide-eyed approach brings to my readership is a new sense of discomfort to old subjects. Most writers will tell you, if you hit them hard enough, that writing isn't so much about making people think new, as making them think Anew. It's all in the relationships: how a person interacts with all else. And it is that "else" has changed... not at all. Family, friends, strangers, enemies -- every human story is a story about how that human gets on with other humans. Even if that other human is a wolf, or a dolphin, or a white whale. Cartoon animals are us. Dots and lines are us. Computers are us, only colder and smarter. Unreal things, unliving things... we make them real, and alive. We cannot think of a tree, without thinking of the world, OUR world, without it, or with more. Or with where else it might have been planted. Whether it provides us shade, comfort. Whether we need the firewood that bad. In this, we are looking to the impact it has on us, and of course, us on it. People are wont to say that everyone, everyone has a best seller in them. The life of the most boring person you know outside of a mirror, that person's life is fascinating. It's fascinating HOW boring it is. And it is also fascinating how boring it is NOT. Tom Sawyer's life, up until Injun Joe, wasn't exactly the stuff of which Great Expectations come. It was fascinating, though, because of how WE related to it. Ok, so Twain was a great writer. That's the point: his greatness, indeed all greatness in writing, derives its power from how readers are made to think about stuff that doesn't seem to be innately fascinating. Because at the core of every boring experience, at the root of every humdrum existence, is a marvelous tale of how the poor sap misinterpreted and misunderstood his world to get to that point. {This sounds really, really whiney. Or whiny. (whinny?) I can practically hear my own voice going nasal, emphasizing my Philadelphia-inspired accent with its "eeuuuuu's", as I beg you to hang in here with me until this bastard is completed. Consider yourself begged.} In telling you nothing is new, which itself has been better stated, I risk blunting whatever angle I thought I was honing. Maybe big words help, by adding specificity to such in(un)specific life. Maybe they're just fun to roll around on your tongue. Twain didn't use them. Salinger didn't use them. I don't. There ya go. Maybe its too much coffee, too many ibuprofen (generic), not got enough milk. Or maybe there are different ways to sharpen a knife. Or find thinner rope. Whatever anyone else's needs, mine are met by taking my time to look for reasons. I like intellectual foreplay more than finding out if I "won." I like bringing a smaller, longer-lasting smile to a face than telling a joke. For one thing, I'm not a great joke teller. For another, it's not my stuff. It's not my angle. It's not my point. Those who read me, who like me, understand me, tolerate me, and want me to continue. Or maybe, they figure why argue about it -- I will anyway. But I do get some smiles. One way or another.