A Blueprint For Composition
Once the writer has acquired the prime materials to set forth the quintessential literary masterpiece, what often besets is the notion that a matter that started out with the best of intention has quickly splattered into a behemoth of a chore. In order to tame the heap into manageable morsels of accomplishment, this segment will layout the elements of inertia behind elaboration of superlative verse.
In all fairness, a question directed at three different people will inevitably yield three different outcomes. As such, all three options (or any permutation thereof) are equally viable answers to the question as presented. The question points to a larger issue that looms over each writer. A writer that is at ease with a thematic approach will, undoubtedly, pick the first option as the correct choice. A writer with a penchant for nuance will manifest his argument with words befitting, marking the second option without hesitation. A writer who is versed in history, science, or art will remain true to his nature and begin to weave reams over reams of verbosity at people, places, and periods–confidently casting his vote for the last option.
The theme is a standard by which the author delineates his argument, honing the statements toward the point under consideration. It is usually revealed early in the draft, occasionally prods at the reader throughout the body of the text and, by the point of closure, is well-defined and encourages the reader to seek out prevalent viewpoints standing idle with agility. Assuming the writer has exceeded the objective, the theme then persists and permeates.
The transitional phrase is the stream that induces thought by keeping prior remarks within sight and hinting at their relevance into forthright directions. All elementary squabbles aside, the writer definitively has his lot to fill. What would be the grounds for acclamation or provocativeness of novel were it not for the context–one might ponder–The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck without a Great Depression; A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens without a revolution; War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy without an aristocracy; remove the ambiance, and you thwart the longing to conceive the narrative, no matter how formidable your inventory of utterance. William Shakespeare in, As You Like It, understood this all too well.
[Jaques to Duke Senior]
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
From a pragmatic point of view, this clearly exemplifies basic writing elements that nudge at the writer, novice or expert, at every stage of composition. When deciding what to write, consider the following: the historical framework, the nature of being, the sciences, the arts, all equally viable pursuits worth penning. Irrefutably still, the feeble assemblage of evidence to support the monologue is a labor of love, so to speak. In figuring the progression of one idea over the next, the writer learns to capture the audience through his unique mode of expression, seamlessly etching insights or sowing seeds into the mind and soul of the reader. It is inevitable for subtle nuances to be subsumed along the way to the final journal entry. Nonetheless, the literary enthusiast knows that the best manuscripts speak volumes–beneath a vocal stream and beyond the limit of thought.
About The Author
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