Sometimes words fail me. Spectacularly.
I think of myself as a writer.
Words have always had an enchantment for me. More than images, I grew up with words. They have the power to transport me, transfer my being, and transcend the everyday.
I have a way with words.
Words speak to me. This may seem vapid, but, it isn't. They tug at my heart. They build visions in my mind. They make me swoon. They lift me up.
Yet, I am an intermittent wordsmith.
I have been enraptured for hours by authors who are able to capture the beauty, in something even as prosaic as the English language. Books were my solace for most of my childhood and young adult. I have certainly read for learning but I always gravitate to the form that allows creativity and expression without bounds, that of fiction.
When inspired, I have been known to hold forth in evocative prose, and sometimes, even poetry. An image, a feeling, a thought so strong that it ties a deep connection between heart and mind. Then, I sing, eloquently.
Yet, there are vast expanses of time, when I sit vacuously in front of my screen, willing, pleading, coaxing my brain to come in aid. While the neurons stubbornly refuse to oblige, I plod along with insipid writing in the hope that an abysmal representation of my potential will stir patriotic feelings within the synapses. Reverse psychology, some call it. It has mixed results is all I can say.
For the chunk of my life that I had to use my brain, the left half was always in command and it remained lit up like a harbor pretty much round the clock. On such occasions as when the right was emboldened enough to make a stand, the left obliged, albeit superciliously, to what it considered, artistic deviances. I as a person reveled in this ability to switch without having to quite take sides.
I am told that writing, much like any other profession, is a work of practice and patience. Lacking in both, I hold on to the fantasy of it being a rush of divinity captured hurriedly on paper. The more abrupt the stroke, the more lucid the message. That is to say, I continue to defy the advice of the likes of any other established author, in not discipling my mind into a routine. Mostly, I think this is because I have simply never had to buckle down to learn something.
Often times, when words fail me, I have simply diverted to fill my pen with light rather than ink and to speak visually than metaphorically. As I embark on the next stage, where, I envision using both towards the common goal of expression, I realize the need to engage with words, ever more. To express what I see in fictionalized eloquence that makes the reader stop, think and comprehend.
The beauty of fiction is not in its diction but in the mastery of prose. We, as food writers/bloggers/commentators inherently create fiction and attempt to, with varying degrees of success, to ground, the notion of what we fabricate, with the reality of our lives. I am always drawn to those successful attempts and am inspired by those who can harness the powerful sensuality of words. There are several examples of beautiful writing that offer a glimmer of shine but there are some, who make it a beacon of their lives, one that shines that deep and luminous.
Some of my favorite blogs to read for their writing -
Beth Kirby - Local Milk
Sarah - The Yellow House
Jeanne - Cooksister
Melissa - The Traveler's Lunchbox
Tara - Seven Spoons
Today's photos are simply a celebration of life and laughter! They were shot in Park Central Hotel and The Dead Rabbit. The former is a newly renovated hotel in the heart of New York's midtown bustle, yet separated from the madness of Times Square. I am usually not a fan of hotel restaurant but this one proves me wrong. Under executive Chef Nathaniel Eckhaus, The Park Kitchen, prospers from the chef's former experiences at Eleven Madison Park, Bar and Beouf.
The Dead Rabbit needs no introduction. New York's hottest cocktail lounge is creating waves across the industry and doing wonders in shifting the mindset on the Irish. Classy cocktails served in an user-friendly and approachable atmosphere with food that matches the quality of the beverage is not something associated with your average Irish pub. But, then the Rabbit is anything but average. Manned by beguilingly young mixologists from Belfast, the lounge upstairs is a pride for the nation!