Ernest Hemingway and Henry James, as they are in my mind.
There's density and there's 'dense-ness'. aka stupidity. I struggle against the latter as age slows my energy and capacity for adventure. However, my writing of late has fallen victim to the former.
I have always been in the Ernest Hemingway camp as opposed to the Henry James pavilion. Peter, my partner, is a James lover. I have thrown several paperback volumes of Henry James on the floor. This may give the educated some insight into the complimentary nature of our relationship. Not really my purpose here though.
I've believed, like Hemingway, that getting to the point succinctly serves ideas well. Reading the fine print of any legal document tells you more about what is wrong with modern civilization than the crass expletives of a graphic novel. Twitter may well be the progeny of Hemingway. Facebook would most likely suit Henry James.
What is to be gained by writing at all? I ask myself this question daily. I'm not the hack in a sloppy movie who says, "I don't choose to write; I have to." Nobody is holding a gun to my head. Yet. The question for me is about my time. At 66, I don't have a lot of that non-renewable resource left. Luckily, at this writing, the question isn't about money either. There are reasons why I earned my living outside the arts. Long story for another time or maybe never.
I don't write for an audience. If I did, I'd still be talking to myself most of the time. Occasionally I am flabbergasted when I receive an email or Tweet about my blogs or cartoons. Someone actually saw that? Go figure. I have been fortunate to have escaped notice from the Second Amendment crowd. As my joints get creaky, it is harder to be a moving target.
If you have read this for any reason other than complete boredom, you have wasted your time. Sorry. Today is not my day for profound insight. Maybe tomorrow. I felt the need to clip words. And, as I look up at my paragraphs, I can see I need more work at it.