Aaron: My, it has been quite some time since I was graced by your presence.

Róta: Dear friend Aaron, it would appear that in the many months of my absence your flattering mind is as unchanged as is your estate here...

Aaron: Although I will certainly admit that my home and my work has remained the same, I would argue that I have never had the mind of a flatterer.   Worship is given to those principled in their matters, just as respect is given to those who earn it.

Róta: And I am glad to hear it.   For there is nothing like returning to one's homeland after a trip abroad, for as they say one's home is where one's heart lies.   The good minds I conferred with, an ocean away, delighted me as I had expected; however, I was always convinced that true innovation has roots here in this country.

Aaron: Clear blue skies, a highly effective working class, a growing economy, and a rich culture... yet, you fancy intelligence above all else.

Róta: Yes.   But my friend Aaron, as much as I enjoy these clear blue skies would it be too much to ask to come into your home?   I wish to rest my weary mind and my tired feet.   Exhausted from my travels I have come to your home in hopes of finding leisure.

Aaron: Another flattering mind?   I am more than happy to spare the time and effort to help you find your leisure, but I fear that when I exercise my mind it will be anything but a leisurely find.

Róta: Let me in and we shall see.

Aaron: Certainly.   Here is my home; still warm with the fervent patience of an active mind, which makes for quietness and calmness wherein one might hear the footsteps of a mouse even.

Róta: Seated here in this room, right at this moment; I am brought back memories of time when we would discus with others of magazines and of books and of poetry.   The other women I voyaged with did not care for literature as leisure, and found no resolve in discussing thematic intrigue, character dynamics, plot devices, and so on.   Here in this room I find a way of thought I had perhaps lost a short time ago.

Aaron: Poor child, to think you are deprived of the very thing that keeps you alive!   Is it too late to readdress issue o literature that you, and I, are so fond of?   Perhaps a book to read, and some water to drink, and some fruit to eat?

Róta: No, it is not too late to return to the issue of words and speech.   In fact, that is why I have come to visit you, my friend.

Aaron: I see.

Róta: So please, re-culture my mind to what it likes and to what it need.   Indulge, and discuss with me the romance that only poetry can bring, the satire that only an essay can offer, and the art of a book in and of itself happens to be.

Aaron: I can and will dear Róta.

Róta: Do recite for me then, how much of a writer you are.   That is, what doe being a writer mean to you?

Aaron: Not much if I should say a "writer" in all its inclusiveness and in its greatest context.   If a child should utter his first word, is he not then a "speaker"?   And if a young boy should learn to read, is he not then a "reader" and a "thinker" as well?   Should any person with the ability to write be a writer, then I must tell you that writing, and being a writer is a simple activity.   Therefore, as a child must at one point script to the page a character of any alphabet, is he then not a writer?

Róta: Indeed, he would then be a writer, and a speaker, and a reader, and a thinker.   But these are actions of nature you describe, and nothing else.  

For one to continue towards success, mustn't such tasks be learned from an early age?   I should think from this perspective you find the purpose of an action or thought diminished by its use.   Does one's practice of a task make that task irrelevant by its continual use?

Aaron: I should think not, for it is the cultivation of a practice that makes an art.   Any man can speak and be a poet, but what good is he if his words do not resonate within the soul of his audience?   And, as I see it, any man can letter an idea and is therefore a writer, but what good is he should his word hold no weight outside of their given context?

It is a job of sorts, being an adequate writer that is.   I find that experience is oftentimes the best path to success due to the fact that experience brings neither wholly good nor entirely poor results.   One's work as accomplished early in his life will never satisfy all of his peers, obviously.   Such a realization for he, the writer, is imperative to his intellectual development and maturity in the ways of authorship.

I mean to say--as a young author those many, many years ago--it actually did me something good and right to know that everything I would write might not, in fact, please my audience in its entirety.  

It is important to note that if a young writer should only think and loftily imagine his work to be worthy of all praise, all of the time, his naïveté will consume him.   'How so?' I am sure you might just wonder.   I see this possible in a number of ways, but chiefly through the inherent nature of man to rise above others in hopes of personal beauty and personal splendor.   To acknowledge the literary craft of others as mere simplicities, orbiting one's own overly idyllic reasoning is to deprive oneself of the values of literature's truest purpose; to humble enlighten foreign minds with creative insight of any kind.   Granted, holding favor with one's own writing is not a sin by any mean, but I should argue that it is a sin of sorts when one deprives his self of achieving the status of an Experienced Writer, whom is capable of understanding work of various types, and of crafting work in multiple dimensions, to suit any audience or occasion as well.

It is also important to note, that should a young writer receive poor results and poor results only from his work, then the young writer should certainly concern himself with the realities of the literary arts.   This theory has two implications: one, it is possible for an able author, and by able I do mean mature in the art beyond what is expected, but it is possible for an able author to have an instructor incapable of nurturing said author's aptitude.   I have seen them, and have been ever so fruitfully instructed by them...

Róta: Is to have a teacher less able than the student a shame then?

Aaron: No, but to have a teacher unable to find potential and drive and ambition when such a distinction is clear as and as significant as the water that keeps our human bodies alive and well.   That, my friend, is a shame.   Anytime one neglects critical thinking and favors the ineptness of the mistress of thoughtlessness, it is a shame.

Róta: I challenge you then to tell me the other side of the coin of poor appraisal.   You tell me that poor feedback from one's mentor and from one's peers can be detrimental to the development of a young writer, and in doing such you blame the mentor and the writer's peers for their blighting of the author's works.   Does not the author hold responsibility for his won work?   I believe that a craftsman should be wary of the tools he utilize in any assemblage of product, whether be he a physician, a carpenter, a priest, or a poet.   I believe that a speaker should be wary of his speech just as much as a writer what he has written.

You cannot blame one's audience and one's audience only for a poor reception of literature.

Aaron: Which brings me to the second implication of my most recent conjecture.   The conjecture of a young writer finding the realities of the literary arts, that is.   Of course, it would be impolite of me to immediately conclude on the fault of the audience for the single reason that any audience at a time can be understood as useless.

But you are correct, for the second implication of my most recent conjecture consider the notion that not all young writers are, in fat, with the aptitude to write compellingly.   Perchance, a young writer's mind is not as athletic as it can be.   And, perchance a young writer's thoughts and innovations are not as well founded as they can be.   What will the reason behind his poor reception then?

Unfortunate as it is to say, dare I say it, a young writer may simply receive bad marks from his mentor and poor receptions from his peers, only or in part, because of his own ineptness as an under-developed writer.   That is to say, at time a young writer cannot write well because he is not, in fact, a writer at all.   I cannot tell you what he is, however, for I am no foreteller of futures.   But what I can say is that it is possible for a young writer to be an old hand at oratory or at research, but still be a young hand at writing.

Nevertheless, despite the apparentness and inevitabilities of receiving poor marks, do not take it that I find doom and gloom a large possibility for any young writer; no, it is simply a possibility among others.

Róta: I cannot imagine that any writer, young or old, should know how to interpret every reaction to his work.   Is the interpretation and understanding of the reception of one's work an integral aspect of developmental psychology?   And how then the writer' reaction to the reception?   Let me tell you how I see it dear Aaron.

The importance in understanding the result and impression that my work has had on any particular audience, this need for understanding as an author, comes from my need to mature.   Maturity in my authorship should certainly enhance my style, build my confidence, clarify my classifications and definitions, and purify my ingenuity, correct?   This is the importance of the comprehension of literary advisors, positive or negative.   It is to one's advantage, always to one's advantage I should say, to lend an ear to what the blind say they see...   the blind man sees not what the seeing man sees, no, never what the seeing man sees at all.

Now, the writer must also posses some knowledge of the arts in order to properly identify and in order to properly explain to his self the given significance of such criticisms.   His reaction to the reception as delivered by the audience he sought to enlighten or as conveyed by the mentor he sought to befriend and love, his reaction will stem from how far removed he is from his Neanderthal self, and is instead more of, how did you say, the Experienced Writer?   The writer must have what it takes, as they say, to take what his audience has for he; and consequently, the young writer must also keep his mind collected and focused as is the tortoise with the hare, less he find him killing himself on the inside by the means of intellectual malnourishment.  

You said, "I have seen them," did you not, in reference to the mentor incapable of understanding his student's aptitude?   It would appear that you could speak on the effects of this issue more than you already have.   And, it would also appear that your being able to speak on such an issue has allowed for much clarity in your understanding of the issue.   Therefore, I ask you again, indulge, and speak to me the truth of the learning curve a young writer must endure as criticism so harshly submits.

Aaron: I have seen them indeed.   Years ago when I was a young writer.   Young writers have the tendency and the likelihood to be overconfident in their works, and also have the nerve to continually push an understanding that even they, the writers, do not fully understand; and, such is the danger of being a young writer.   Nevertheless, it is still very possible for a certain young writer to overcome such prideful and selfish motives in order to achieve the greater cause of scripting a magnificent work of literary art.

Róta: And you were one such young writer capable of such distinction, might I add?

Aaron: Yes, but this I know now having studied, learned, listened, and experienced myself in the practice and culture of the art years later.   How could I have known that my ambition to know literary ideals of ancient scholars and my ambition to imagine philosophical theories of future sages would cultivate my heart towards what I am now?   Such an evolution is not inevitable through such starts dear Róta.  

A certain mentor of mine own, many years ago now, was incredibly ruthless.   Her knowledge and education in the studies was large--I shouldn't feign my faith in a good education--but her usage of such knowledge was quite inadequate.   This certain mentor of mine, of whom I had studied under for a year, disliked a good percentage of all of my writing.   I fear saying she held no favor in all of my writing, but in being so precise I may verbalize the truth too truthfully.  

Róta: Hold nothing back, for I am listening.   I am here to listen, in your home at this time, only to converse and to listen.  

Aaron:   So be it, hold nothing back I shall, and tell you of this one occurrence truthfully as it should be told.  

This one mentor of mine, whose name I will withhold upon this truthful revelation, was conservative and determined only for styles and approaches to literature as were appropriate to her liking.   Only the students who scripted in the style and in the theme to this mentor's liking scored well, and conversely, only the students who essayed not in accordance to her will in neither approach nor topical appeal, scored poorly.   Shunning the writing of others because it does not comply with what one believes to be true is shameful schooling.

Róta: Your words are quite harsh my dear friend.   I find it difficult to disagree with such well-spoken concern; however, I see a point of difference in your argument in that even though you find it shameful so as to not accompany alien thought within a school, I find that such strict boundaries are necessary so that the morals of that school remain pure for future generations.  

What schools, might I bravely ask, what school would still exists had it that students mentor the mentors?    Nurturing a certain mode of thought, yes, that is the purpose of a school.   And, as is true across not just our homeland but others as well--for I have seen them, and learned through them.   It is also true that there are multiple schools of thought, different places to learn of different things.   It is a thing Aaron, to learn of a technique or of an art from one school as the most important art around, however, it is still of that same thing to go to another school and learn of that art, even thought hat school should teach its art as the most important art of all.   I see little weight in your argument against such a mentor so strict and unbending to her own rules.

Aaron: Then allow me to further enlighten you to my understanding of it, to tip the scales in my favor only through what I understand to be my own education.  

I speak not in favor of this individual, once a mentor of mine, because it is to the disadvantage of the teacher and to the school to shun a certain student's aptitude for a subject and ambition for a field of the arts simply because it is not directly equal to that of graduates past.   Those many years ago--as I do now--I had thought in a separate manner than my mentor, and was therefore estranged from talks of publication and the sort.   This mentor of mine believed a certain idea about writing.   A belief is a mere understanding of a certain supposition might I add, and that we all as humans have such suppositions guiding us through life as individuals.   However, conflict arises when one presses upon others his supposition in hopes of converting others from their own suppositions, persuading individuals from an unproved truth to what is simply a hopeful truth, that is, another unproved and unsubstantiated truth.   Any one mentor should not withhold any one student from seeking to understand his own ideals, as different as they may be from the mentor's, unsubstantiated or not.

Róta: How does this fare for the student's future then?   Having been a student of such mentorship Aaron, surely you have found a way to go beyond that which you find not acknowledgeable and have managed to construct a plan for your own ambitious style and approach to literature?   How do you approach the future with your writing?

Aaron: As is dependent upon what the subject matter is, I plan to use the poem, the essay, and the short story as much as possible in my writing.   My motives for doing such will be contingent on whatever it is that I need to convey.  

Because I had received a certain lack of appreciation for my essay work from the previously mentioned mentor, I happen to have a strong and confident approach to this writing technique.   I have managed to take the criticism and use it as fuel for the never tiring machine that is my human mind, and will continue to do so as a means of portraying the justness in whatever it is I speak of within each essay.   The essay is a form of literature that allows its author to perceive objectively and to interpret accordingly any matter of subject that dare come across the mind of the Experienced Writer.   With such an explicit purpose, it can be used to seek to understand and explore all things known and unknown, and as such, I intend to do so.

Fiction is a masterpiece.   The effort a writer makes to ensure that each detail is laced with the purity of language, and the knowledge wrapped around each carefully phrased moment of action, is what makes fiction a masterpiece.   To read the short story takes only but free time from an individual, whereas to write a short story is tot take all of one's time, except that which is free.   I enjoy the research and attentiveness that must go into the creation of the fictitious story; however, such long lasting hard work tends to take much from the author regarding physical and spiritual energy.

Poetry, as I see it, is the most difficult of these three modes of literature I have proposed to understand.   The poet is an individual who must not only know and value each of the words he chooses to use, but the poet must also know and value each effect that each word use will have upon any given audience.   Selective the poet must be with his language, for should he arbitrarily construct a message of untruth so graphically so as to convince those unaware, or, should the poet arbitrarily place meanings so as not to concern himself with their intentions, then he is a mere contriver of words.   Good poetry comes from a person's vivid emotional and intellectual understanding of the human being; failure to do such will only result in a mockery of the art.

Róta: Your scrutiny and examination of writing and how you fair, as a writer is uniquely interpretive of your way of thinking as an individual.   Should we break off now and rejoin later so that I can find what you think of such subjective literature, Love, knowledge that edifying, temperance, and so on?

Aaron: If you so choose dear Róta, then let it be.   I seek nothing more than to exercise my mind and to refresh yours, a mind only beginning to refill its empty stomach of enjoyable speech.   I do not see myself as one who would wish to push my ideals and observations on you nor upon the world, but only as one who writes in order to put to the paper what needs to be placed to paper.

Róta: And as I choose to do so, I shall do so.