When Frost came upon the now very famous allegorical two roads that “diverged in a yellow wood,” he spoke of how choosing one over the other had made “all the difference” in his life. According to the poem, both lanes appeared to have been evenly used, judging by how the vegetation had been worn down equally on each of them. And from that, the author states that it was impossible to tell which of the two had been the most travelled on.
Does knowing that one path has been more often chosen over another make it easier for us to take it? Does it help us decide? Or would it help if one appeared less used, thereby supplying an element of mystery and uncertainty?
All that we do in this life, every decision we make, each time we set out, we are faced with choices that, in large part, determine our journeys’ outcomes. Writing is no different. It’s not so much the subject matter that is the problem in some cases as it is in which direction to take it. In other words, when I come to that fork in the road, which do I take?
In all art, originality is key, or at least being able to take something old or that’s been done before and make it new or apply a new twist to it. I have tried to do that in all the writing I do, and in retrospect, I think I’ve accomplished that. I also see room for improvement–there is always that!–and places where a particular story could be expanded upon or taken in even another direction.
Art, like nature, is boundless. The reason for that, I think, is blessedly simple: they are one and the same.