Are We Known by the Company We Keep - or Bad Hair Days?

I was desperate to find a photograph - any photograph to put into my profile. The only choice available was what you see, now. It is grainy and not entirely representative of me but will have to do. There are just no pictures as no one has taken any of me and I'm not terribly interested in taking my own. The photograph which I most eagerly anticipate is that found in the jacket of my novels.

In my mind, that photograph will capture the essence of the brooding artist and the penetrating but far away stare of a philosopher entranced in thought. My hair will be white and wild and my bushy eyebrows frowning to emphasize my taking bead and aim at another evil about to be addressed with my wit and wrath and blistering reason. As I age I am well on my way to that iconic dream. I am reflecting on why such a picture defines the author but it is supported by history. After some consideration one must wonder which came first, the misery or the mystery captured in the images we have of great writers? It is really something that I believe happens concurrently.

Here are some but not all of the giants that have either influenced or reinforced the ideologies to which I subscribe. Each was out of step with their times because they were miles ahead. That you may disagree or not embrace them as I is not important. It is my opinion and you are entitled to it.

Charles Dickens. Until I located this photograph I had no idea he was left-handed. My admiration has now expanded without bounds. In addition to his use of the superior opposable thumb I share his participation in personal misery and misfortune and find writing from experience as the most natural for me. I read Great Expectations at the tender age of twelve and it forever nurtured my misogynistic tendencies. God bless us, each and every one!

Continuing the theme of bad hair and worse attitude is the sardonic, Mark Twain. I will try to not become as jaded and cynical as Samuel Clemens became in later life but I will gladly drink deeply from the well of his inspiration and trust the same wary eye to allow me to see through the folly of daily human preoccupations.



Alexander Pope. What deliciously rapier wit and pointed sarcasm. Another hero as much for his facility with the English language as his precision with expressing his observations. I love technical mastery and because the constraints Pope put upon himself to remain within the strictures of acceptable language in his prose only magnify rather than restrain him is all the more reason I so enjoy him.

Robert Frost, is timeless in his verbal snapshots of America. He produced such vibrant colors with black and white descriptions. There is nothing light about his verse. His pensive mood and probing thoughts could provide a panoramic landscape or tunnel in with microscopic scrutiny to the soul. "Mending Wall" proved to me that a poem can express as much as a great novel.

Ayn Rand. Loved or hated there is no mistaking this author's work. Her ideologies and stance were and still are so contrary to the culture of comfort seeking and living without thought or consequence. If a writer can not provoke you or inspire you then why should they be read? Honestly, can her style, energy, passion or craft be dismissed because of her political reasoning? Hardly. I avoided reading her for years because so many people wanted to draw comparison between her principle characters and my own conduct and attitudes. Her style is as distinctive and powerful as Hemingway's. That did not happen by accident or chance and no one was seeking to afford her the opportunity to express herself. She voiced her mind unwaveringly and clearly by shear force of will.