Thursday, August 6, 2009

Quick! Smell my writing fingers!!!!

Attended the world premiere of Julia and Julie—a cleverly delivered masterpiece starring Meryl Streep and Amy Adams loosely based on the life and lives affected by a true master chef Julia Child.



I love food but that’s not what drew me closer to the dinner table.



Julia Child with her highly enriched over pronounced words and delivery and passion to constantly keep every moment positive didn’t want but rather demanded one opportunity—to be happy. She waited until her forties to have sex and could barely fry an egg not before earning but purchasing her way into a well touted culinary school in France.



Julia deeply cherished the invisibleness of flavor vowing to personally discover the arrival and makings of every ingredient as a way to invite those she loved into a world blessed by an artists tongue.



Amy Adams is wanna-be writer Julie Powell whose dead end government job tastes like raw unprepared chocolate. Ever put a spoon full of sugarless cocoa in your mouth and attempt to swallow? Gag! Cough! Cough! Can’t talk! Gag! No air!



Through daily writing she’s able to speak a language millions around the world can hear without having to shove her mixture between two book covers policed by publishing companies locked down in money making mode.



Thanks to the World Wide Web “all writers” have a place to go…Blogging. It’s free, its marketed in every country that gets electricity and you’re instantly connected to readers who can relate, want to dream with you and or are inspired by the paths of choice elected to adventure.



It’s easy to assume such expressions are nothing more than Dear Diary documents—so let it be. Not a single soul placed upon this earth is alone, what you see, feel, hear, taste and smell has been lived out by someone across the street or completely around the world in a dark corner of lost sunsets until the moment you meet.



While living in France, Julia Child disappointedly noticed the brilliance of French cooking was completely unavailable to English speaking housewives. To fall witness to such vividness without realizing what to add and how much strapped her to a wall with only eyes that could reach the horizon.



Through synchronicity her steps crossed a single line that introduced her to a voice that would listen while scoring her backstage passes to some of the longest best kept secrets in culinary history.



It seemed so simple to paste American words over French…it might have been if publishers could’ve seen the purpose behind the painting Julia elected to hang. Just like Thomas Edison, Julia was hand delivered failure after failure which in essence molded the perfect chef by means of locating newer ways to communicate to anyone addicted to the finely tuned craft of food design.



Julie Powell challenged herself to take Julia’s book and make it a reality. Child's hard driven desire to mastermind a plan to communicate to simple people the precious delivery of unforgettable food evolved into Julie's daily blog—she prepared a new dinner every night then spent hours on the computer writing about the experience.



The birth of a writer is like watching a bright red rose stretch its petals from this side of the map to the other. I didn’t cry at the arrival of Julie Powell, the waves of emotion from one writer to another swelled to the point of a tsunami and my cheeks became its final place of rest before sinking into the soils below.



Another Julia as in Cameron, the maker of The Artist Way and former wife of Martin Scorsese teaches us that every human planted on this giant blue rock was born to write. It is set within our limits of individualisms that calms the purpose of there being a reason to send thought across a once living tree so we stop writing by the age of thirteen.



Teachers with giant red pens keep books from being published. Husbands and wives who constantly have to be in the know keep writers from expressing. Friends with too much honesty and barely a pinch of compassion shatter the depth a writer wants to bring. Bosses and coworkers destroy the confidence a writer must experience before publicly displaying their poetry.



Blogging…



Benjamin Franklyn was recently named our nations first ever blogger. He didn’t work for a newspaper, magazine, local television news team or greeting card company. He wrote to write. Writing is the flow created when your body pumps out energy for the world to fall witness to. There is life after life then more life after your last writing project is held in the hands of a life you’ll never meet face to face.



The first to arrive on the land to which we walk, drive and dream was experienced first by Native American’s. Storytelling was their guarantee that each tradition would be handed down so that each elder present would live beyond their human delivery. In the past fifty years the stories have stopped. The well aged are no longer speaking. Books are not being written. The tale of those before us is dying.



What if you hold the single note that helps make a persons life have music? Through your silence as a writer, to whom are you being fair to? Life isn’t about you.



Steal my art…



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

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