It is clear by now that Don Quixote and its many authors (all of whom are embodied in one Miguel de Cervantes), is much on my mind this week. The reason for this is known only to myself and the antagonist of these fragmented passages of mine, although A man will likely never view them. And to those of you who are familiar with the don know that even if he did, this man's likeness being so similar to the don's, he would of course not see himself in these words, would he?
Tonight, while reading Cervantes's words from prison (written nearly 500 years ago), my thoughts are with my writers group as I anticipate our first autumnal meeting and what novel things we might discover of ourselves...
...and what, then,could this sterile, ill-tilled wit of mine beget but the story of a dry, shrivelled, whimsical offspring, full of thoughts of all sorts and such as never came into any other imagination--just what might be begotten in a prison, where every misery is lodged and every doleful sound makes its dwelling?
This from the man who wrote what is considered to be the best work ever written, a true homage to the novel. Perhaps it is his want of truth and his unapologetic use of imagination that makes it so beloved to the reader (the one belonging to the 16th century as much as to the reader of this century).
Words of the imagination are the most useful and entertaining, the nearer they approach the truth, and the more probability they contain; and, even history is valued according to its truth and authenticity.
You now wonder to the purpose of my words. I think it is this... that as we gather to share our stories next week, we need to remember that our stories are our own. They have never, nor will they ever, belong to another. We are verily the author of the stories we write -fiction & non-fiction alike - and the owner of our imaginations as certainly as we are the owner of our lives.