There are a few things that make writing worth it. My favorite is when I read something I’ve written and find myself incredulous that it’s mine. The next, and much more flattering thing is when someone tells me he’s decided to start writing too. So far a few people have started or stated their intentions to start writing, here and there and mostly for their own entertainment, after reading some of the things I’ve posted. That’s pretty cool, and I hope you guys keep posting. I don’t know that it was really me who catalyzed your decision, but whether I did or not doesn’t matter. Now here’s a poem I didn’t write:
O solitude! if I must with thee dwell,
Let it not be among the jumbled heap
Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep,––
Nature’s observatory––whence the dell
Its flowery slopes, its rivers’ crystal swell,
May seem a pain; let me thy vigils keep
‘Mongst boughs pavillion’d, where the dear’s swift leap
Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell.
But though I’ll gladly trace these scenes with thee,
Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,
Whose words are images of thoughts refined,
Is my soul’s pleasure; and it sure must be
Almost the highest bliss of human kind
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee
Just a little Keats to remind you to wonder why you read my crap.
See Andrew Whiting. Read Andrew writing. 