On Species of Writing

I have been learning about the kinds of writing. It is a learning which is coming not by any regular curriculum but simply by using and reading and thinking about the various kinds. So of course I still know little enough about them. But I like what I am learning. Each kind must be approached in its own way because each has its own rules and standards of beauty. And there are so many different kinds.

For instance newspaper writing is different from academic writing which is different from essay writing which is different from blogpost writing which is different from letter writing which is different from nonfiction writing which is different from short story writing which is different from novel writing which is different from playwriting which is different from poetry writing. Every single one of those takes a different style and different skills.

I do not mean that one must relearn how to write for each kind of writing. Skill once learned is of course adaptable. But no two kinds of writing take the same skills in the same ways. Each one requires another modulation of craft. And I love that they do. Language can take forms so delightfully varied that getting to know the ins and outs of them all is in itself a pleasure. Discovering the power and bounds of each one is a study and a joy which could last a lifetime. Humans at least shall never lack for modes of expression. It was a wonderful thing when we were given language. I think it was only a slightly less wonderful thing when we learned to write and began the permutation and proliferation of written species which led us to the present population of form and style.

An All Hallows' Eve Tale

Once upon a time—a time not so unlike our own—there lived a man who, like all men, was a traveler. This man loved a maiden, as many men do; and the maiden loved him in return, which is more than many men can say. Nor was she an ordinary maiden, though she was a commoner, for she was as fair as autumn and as faithful as the seasons. But there are other powers in the world than Love, and not all are powers for good. So it was that the man and maiden were parted, and both were laid under binding spells that they might not go and seek one another. They remained many days in duress; but upon All Hallows' Eve Day, the man broke the spells that bound him and set forth upon a journey to find the maiden again. Twice a hundred miles he traveled, through misty mountains and over dark rivers, until he came to a town in the midst of a forest.

That was a strange place, for the town lay upon the borders of Elfland, and heavy were the enchantments that held it there. No time passed in those shadowy marches between our world and the other, but each morning dawned upon the same day, so that the folk grew no older, and the land did not decay. The force of the spells about the town was such that it was often hidden from human sight; at such times, any who found it would find only empty buildings and whispering streets. Indeed, only a few days in the year could that town be found by mortals; but All Hallows' Eve Day is of all days the most potent.

In that town, under the veil of enchantments, the maiden was hidden. Resting as it did on the border, the town had become a meeting-place for the worlds, and men named it Fairhaven, for within its walls humans and elves alike found refuge. Through its streets passed lords, ladies, peasants, pickpockets, fairies, elves, merchants, craftsmen, swordsmen, scholars, knights-errant, stranded seafarers, traveling jugglers, wandering minstrels, and others so many that the tale of them would last seven days in the telling. Among these the maiden took her place, living by her music upon the streets, and waiting for her love.

The man stopped before the gates of Fairhaven. The guards that keep the gates looked him up and down and muttered amongst themselves, for they let none pass that have not the welcome of the town's governors; and the man was a stranger. So he stood without the gates, gazing with wonder into that elfish place. Hard it seemed to have come to the gates of Faerie and be denied entrance; and harder still, for the man knew that the maiden had passed through those gates; and now only a single wall lay betwixt them; yet it was an impassable wall. Still he was patient, and waited for something to happen; and, as usually happens, something did.

For, by some way of magic, the maiden had learned of his coming. When she knew that he was without the gates, she ran thither as swiftly as her legs would bear her. And there in the doorway of the elfin city those two long parted met again, and in the twilight between Earth and Faerie the man found the end of his journey, and the maiden the end of her waiting. After a time she led him through the gates, for she had a word of passage from the governors of the town, and once within she became his guide through all the wonders of that place. The sights that she showed him there, musicians and players, merchants and craftsmen, jousts and processions, and more beside, must be left for another writing, for there is not space nor skill here to describe them. Through all these things she led him; and all that day he did not leave her side.

Yet, when the day ended, and All Hallows' Eve had passed, the enchantments that had bound the man once more summoned him away. All Saints' Day was come; the day of wonder was gone, and the man returned whence he had come. Once more the man and the maiden were separated: she went again to the town of Fairhaven to await his return; and he was borne back to a far-off land of thick and dreary enchantments. Yet even there, at times, the memory of Faerie, and of her who waits, returns to him in waking dreams. And it may be that they shall not remain thus parted: for there be other days in the year with potency against dreary enchantments; and there be other powers in the world besides those that strive with Love.

(I, Owen Locksley, son of Sir Reginald Locksley, servant of the Crown, do attest to the truth of this tale. Yet it may be that some find the story dark, and think the right shape of things hidden by the telling, and the facts obscured in webs of words. For those that make such complaint I say merely that this account is true to the utmost, as far as it goes; and for a clearer telling of the facts, they must wait for some other day. For tales take long in the weaving, even such tales as be reworkings of things already past; and a knight's son has scant time for tale-weaving.)