When The Fog Lies Like A Thick Blanket

Like a thick blanket, a dense fog muffled the typical morning clamor of vehicles and pedestrians struggling to navigate up the hill.

I steadily peered down upon that fog from my seventh-floor dorm room but could not see into it. But I could easily hear those encapsulated by its folds laboring toward their destinations despite temporary blindness. And in due time, the sun rose to shake off the blanket… and all was again normal.

What interest did I have in this smothering gray mass? None really... but for one commitment. A creative writing assignment hung around my neck like a worrisome albatross. When the instructor had gushed, "Write about anything," the English majors grinned. I, the 17-year-old engineering freshman, cringed.

Thus my fascination with the blanket of fog and the teeming life it simultaneously concealed and confused. Perhaps it would suffice as a topic--if a nuts-and-bolts sort of fellow could stitch together enough flowery words and make something of them.

So I penned my best descriptive phrases, an uncomfortable step away from the safety of sterile laboratory notebook jargon. My paper came back with scant corrections, and the "A" at the top was of great interest. Other writing assignments garnered similar scores I couldn't explain.

Next semester's schedule forced me into a different class and a respite from writing. Or so I thought. But this new instructor was also bent on wringing creativity from dry bones. That's when the idea struck: why not recycle my "A" papers from the previous semester?

A brilliant timesaving strategy, I concluded, and hastily copied the first paper for submission. The instructor so hacked it apart that the "B-" seemed overly generous. Suspecting a fluke, I submitted another--with similar repercussions. From then on all papers were written from scratch, and grades gradually improved.

But from that process emerged a valuable insight: creative writing, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. And not wishing to be blown from shore to shore by the fickle winds of appreciation, I ventured no more on the high seas of creative prose for about 35 years.

But on the other hand, I haven't been able to avoid countless impenetrable fogs that just as effectively concealed and confused my intended destinations as that one back in 1963. And the creative ability those college instructors labored to hone has changed neither facts nor circumstances.

But in the artist's eye lies the catalyst that transforms raw skill into true art. To properly evaluate circumstances and surrounding is far more important than being able to simply capture them on paper.

Though rising above the fog in one's mind compels it neither to dissipate nor to release its captives, the vantage point brings perspective. For if we can hang on for just another half-hour, no matter how thick the fog may be, the sun will rise in due time and shake off the blanket. And we'll be on our way once more.

Copyright 2002 James McAlister

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