The Heroism Of Unbridled Curiosity; The Art Of Observation; The Lettuce Soup Recipe For Writers

There are those of the literary school of thought that the greatest instrument in the toolbox of a writer is his imagination.

At the other end of the divide, there exists another posse of literary pundits, those who hold the dissenting belief that "words" constitute a writer's aegis of protection.
This archipelago of individuals take as given, the notion that the breadth of a writer's vocabulary, governs how proficient he would be in his quotidian trade of storytelling.
Also, to this logophilic ensemble, a writer might as well stick to his day job at McDonald's if the manner in which he registers words on paper isn't borderline poetics-without-the-meter.

Au contraire, a writer's chief asset is hardly his imagination, although this is a non-negotiable postulate; neither is it his Santa Claus-sized bag of fifty-dollar fanciful words, nor his uncanny ability to wield the mystical forces of articulation.
These, though sine qua non in the conveyance of an idea or mycelium of thoughts, are not the battering ram in a writer's literary arsenal.

The writer's greatest work tools are his five senses: his sense of sight, his sense of smell, his sense of touch, his sense of hearing, and his sense of taste — man's oldest sensemaking mechanisms of the cosmic unknowns.

Imagination and the needle-sharp pointedness of perception are the requisite Sixth Sense which any writer worth his-her salt must possess — the twain of which should be tempered with healthful doses of reflection for maximal impact.

But, having all of these qualities would essentially be of no use if the writer fails to tap into the multi-sensory dimensions of experience: either by his-her uncurious disposition, or his-her glacial approach toward, or outright unwillingness to embrace with eagle-spread arms, the obsessive-compulsiveness of pattern-recognition and the methodical science of observation.

John Archibald Wheeler tightly encapsulates the sommum bonum of this essay in his timeless statement: "All things physical are information-theoretic in origin and this is a participatory universe...Observer-participancy gives rise to information".

Sensum strictum, what Wheeler was trying to say is that the quality of our observation, and the nature of its recorded representation, determines the solidity of the informational infrastructures of our reality.

We cannot overemphasize the importance of paying attention, or how the paradox of self-bifurcation would greatly aid in immersing us into that which exists on the outside of our tongue of being — for only by divorcing "ourselves from ourselves" can a thoroughgoing emancipation from the hobbles of solipsism be achieved.

Observation, as I have grown to understand it, is the conveyor belt which catalyses our exodus toward the karmic bliss of self-transcendence.

Observation is an art that requires immense discipline and patience. It is the one quality that, sadly, has been outflanked by the technological razzle-dazzle of the 21st century — an era driven by short-term and immediate gratification, and an age wherein the quick-whirr pace of our mechanical and computerized lives hardly brooks for the attunement of the mind's ear to the panorama of events which backdrops our very existence.

[...]


Knowledge comes from noticing resemblances and recurrences in the events that happen around us. And keen observation is what transmutes information into knowledge — look no further than 19th century fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes, and his exquisite brand of mindfulness for proof.

Buoyed by bolts of certainty that well-developed habits of observation are more important in creative writing than large accumulations of academic learning, it behooves of the writer to put his-her sensory organs to use, and to do so with unflagging resolve.

The eye, as they say, is the window of the soul; the glory hole through which the writer captures the winding mysteries of the universe.
When the eye is shut dead to the world, or when it is latched open but is absent-minded, the writer ultimately loses touch with oodles of high-octane novelties unfurling on the petri dish of existence — a phenomenon otherwise known as "inattentional blindness".

He-she misses out in the panoply of world events, and his-her imagination which feeds off the cataract of sounds, symbols, images, and scents — which it receives from the sensory organs — starts to suffer from a kind of cognitive ulcer due to privations caused by non-utility of these sensory organs.

This results in the cancer of writer's block, and in the unfortunate clogging of the writer's creative arteries. And alsso results in the impersonal sterility of his writing(s), should the writer decide to write a story or an article or a thesis in that cognitively deprived state.
How viable is it to write acutely about that which has not been seen, or that which has not been felt, or that which has not been heard of?

Conversely, the writer's eye ought to be akin to the hungerings of a roving predator; and should share the enthusiasm of a gumshoe who is hot upon the scent of a revealing finding at a crime scene.

A writer's eye is meant to be in a constant state of unrest; it ought to observe in close quarters, the fast-expanding parameters of human interaction; it is meant to make intrusive forays into the lives of people, and take an almost voyeuristic interest in every of their affairs.

A writer's eye must be trained to identify patterns, and should be able to winnow pertinent detail from flotsam at a glance.
it is meant to tease together, the jigsaw puzzle that figures in frenzied flashes on the broad eventful screens in the cinemas of reality; and it is meant to entrap – like the Spider's handcraft does to the unsuspecting housefly – every shard of data that falls within the range of its unflinching focus.

[...]


[So], my dear writer(s), when you are trapped in that surf-tormented maelstrom of writer's block — that three-headed Baskerville hound of terror; when it seems you have hit a roadblock with an idea, and when that Pulitzer-winning story is not just forthcoming; perhaps all that you need to do is to stop writing, stop thinking, and pause to observe the beautiful and many-splendoured world around you.

Observe the nuances eminent in human relations; observe the growth of a plant; observe the birds in flight; take interest in the voice of the muezzin chirruping away the Adhan from the miranet of a mosque; pay attention to the unheard rhythm of raindrops pattering on umbrellas, the earsplitting honking of horns, and the din of speeding automobiles.

And from that curative and deliberate observation of the world, you would find that you are able to wrest that much sought-after bundle of muse, which if diligently worked upon, would nudge you into that rarified air of literary excellence.
Sometimes, all it takes is to stop to SEE, to FEEL, to TASTE, to HEAR, and to SMELL the roses.

This is an excellent essay, sir.
Would like for you to teach me a few things. Are you regular on facebook?

fikfaknuel:
This is an excellent essay, sir.

Would like for you to teach me a few things. Are you regular on facebook?

Thank you, sir.

Sure I would, but I must warn you, my schedule is rather crowded.

And no, I do not visit Facebook regularly. Gmail would be fine: aromolarandebo@gmail.com.

fikfaknuel:
This is an excellent essay, sir.

Would like for you to teach me a few things. Are you regular on facebook?

Thank you, sir-ma'am.

Sure I would, but I must warn you, my schedule is rather crowded.

And no, I do not visit Facebook regularly. Gmail would be fine: aromolarandebo@gmail.com.

darkenedrebel:


Thank you, sir-ma'am.

Sure I would, but I must warn you, my schedule is rather crowded.

And no, I do not visit Facebook regularly. Gmail would be fine: aromolarandebo@gmail.com.

I'm a boy, who seeks to learn.

Gmail it is, then.

Yet another one from darkenedrebel (hope I got that name right).

i would love to learn too, my gmail is chikerechinwendu@gmail.com. thank you, I will really appreciate.

radiokilla:
Yet another one from darkenedrebel (hope I got that name right).

Yes you did.

Succintly put, nice one Michael

skarlett:
Succintly put, nice one Michael

Thank you, J.K Rowling.

Naughtydiana, why did you stop posting on that your thread? 'cause of that stupid ap..tech guy, I suppose.

Please, do...

I just started reading today... it is really mind blowing