The Merit in Random Writing

 A friend told me a writer needs to be able to write about his shoelace. Indeed. Chesterton once quipped, "I was going to write about the contents of my pocket but the age of epics is past."

What is this thing of writing about anything, finding some comment worth the effort, seeing what is unseen, imagining that which is otherwise unknown? I'm not sure I know. Some people have no penchant or desire for "making talk." If, on some ingrained metric, there is nothing worth discussing, don's say anything. As one proverb gives voice to a thousand like it, "Better to be silent and thought a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt."

So I'm left wondering if there is any good cause or purpose in writing about anything -- anything. The window, the rug, the lamp; Birch, Alder, Cottonwood, Spruce; art, flowers, candles, couches, books, carpet, shelves, smoke alarm. Of course I am making a cursory record of my surroundings, general scale, not very particular.

There is more: light on phone, untied dress shoes, wreath through door glass, passing Chevy, dimming sky. In each and all of those are ideas to mine, questions to ask, lessons to learn or at least imagine.

If there is merit in discussing the random, one point of light may be the exercise in thought, of being an amateur metaphysician, asking what makes the thing what it is, what properties are essential. In doing this one learns to think better and that is never a bad thing. 

Along with that, some of us -- maybe most -- find it necessary to talk things out if we are to 'see' what we think more clearly. and of course if we receive feedback from listeners or readers, we may find a better path. If we listen.