If I were forced to give up one sense for super-acuity in another, which would I choose for advancement and which—dear God, which—would I sign away as a handicap, dead to me and gone?
“A gift, you say?” I said. “This is not a gift—it is a punishment!”
The devil tapped his foot with some impatience.
“Call it a cost,” said he. “You’ve got here thanks to your books and thinking, into a dimension well out of your space and time; and now you have got to get out. Be happy you leave with your life. But no trip to Hell is made without a lasting impression. Now what will it be? Blindness in exchange for the sensory apparatus of a bat? Taste for the nose of a bloodhound?”
There are lots of doors. Writing is a door. Art is a door. One of the facets of creative work that has always fascinated me most is the ability to inspire creation. When you see really compelling artwork, you don’t just see a 2D image–you see a story–and that is the beginning of your own journey.
When Wallie the Imp, my Friend, and I heard the prompt for today’s post, courtesy of The Daily Post—“Write a letter to your 14-year-old self”—we rushed to grab our pens and paper. I sat at the table, my Friend took the armchair, and the Imp was on top of the refrigerator.