Unless otherwise noted, Copyright James C. Hess 2008. All Rights Reserved. Published by Thinking Rock Press, with written permission from the author.

THIS IS WHERE the world begins: Beneath the inner curve of the blue dome, at the edge of infinite possibility, embodied by the blackness of space.

This is how the world begins: Not with a bang or a whimper, but simply.

This is why the world endures: Because.

When I was younger I questioned everything by way of youthful arrogance and an excess of ego, justified by philosophical pursuits and divining, believing foolishly as I did so that such aggressiveness would lead me to the ultimate question and answer: What does it all mean?

The passage of time, often brutal and always unrelenting, has taught me many things, including the undeniable truth that such behaviors and actions rarely, if ever, produce the desired result.

This is where the world begins: As a relatively quiet day when summer transitions to early fall, when leaves begin to color and a palate of yellows, oranges, and reds ignite the world with their brilliance, and when the husking sounds of fallen leaves rustling against one another on the ground and in the street, that act as a sublime rendition of the initial strains of The Four Seasons by Vivaldi, specifically the autumnal selection; where the air is colder and scents become more pronounced.

This is how the world begins: A sigh from Nature, into the wind, and winter makes overtures of its approach, suggesting a forthcoming long sleep in cold and darkness.

This is why the world endures: Because. It does.

Having been on this planet for more than a few years - so many so that vanity encourages me to deny exactly how long without guilt - I have reached the undeniable and inescapable conclusion that the ultimate question and answer long pursued elude me, and will continue to do so.

But they may be realized some day, somewhat, by way of writing.

When asked why it is I became a Writer for years I offered no sufficient or adequate reply or explanation. But a number of years ago I realized quite accidentally a major reason for why I did so was because I wanted to know, I needed to know as much as I could about Life itself. The quantifying and qualifying nature of writing lends itself to such things, and quite easily, as well: Think about something, verbalize about something and find that what you seek remains unfound. But write it down, give it form on paper, and suddenly a clarity previously unknown results, and from this comes a new understanding of Life.

Several years ago, having realized this, I undertook an exercise of sort that exploited writing for my benefit: Every time I encountered a word, concept, or idea I didn't understand or know, I wrote it down. At first these notes were contained in a small notebook. As the exercise was practiced with diligence the small notebook gave to way to a large notebook, and then a series of notebooks that become encyclopedic in scope and breadth.

Individuals who have seen these records marvel at their vastness. A pronouncement I am quick to dismiss because I know otherwise: In my opinion they represent very little in the grand scheme of things.

An opinion I have uttered more than once to those who would care to hear such things.

Understand: I am not saying writing has failed to provide me what I need in my dogged pursuit of Life. Just the opposite. But given I am a flawed human - as is everyone - they stand as testament to my existence.

Which brings me to why I am writing this: As I get older, as time's passage becomes more apparent, I find myself making a deliberate and willful effort to produce writing that matters, that demonstrates value and purpose. Writing that can bring meaning to Life - not only for me but anyone who desires such things - and I find that the emphasis on such things brings a heighten awareness to me.

Piffle.

Such profundity, gorged with hyperbole. Bile to the extreme. What, in blunt company, is called rightly "B.S."

President John Adams would be quick to condemn and denounce it, I believe, based on what I know of him by way of his writings because he was a plain-spoken man for his time. A man not given to grandiose or excess. A man who respected language so much he refused to allow it to be abuse or perverted, and was willing to make personal sacrifices to ensure such. Consequently his genius was all but lost to time.

Fortunately, there are those who recognize his genius, his commitment to quality by way of language - written and spoken - and in his honor, by way of a shared spirit, strive to practice good writing.

It is a vocation that is not met with favor or grace - despite this being the Information Age, where writing should be an absolute, where those who practice it should be honored, respected, and revered.

For years I have personally and professionally struggled with this concern, and sought to reconcile this on an individual level.

I would like to be able to claim that my efforts have been successful. Superficially they have been. But in the grand scheme of things my success is not apparent, and evidence of this is found almost daily in my mail, from individuals concerned about the state of language, the affairs of writing, the erosion and demise of the same.

My immediate response is to quietly sigh and reply, offering assurance, things are not as bad as them seem, and all it takes is dedication, determine, and a desire on the part of the individual to make for change for the better.

Some of my correspondents reply to this opinion. Some of these replies may be repeated in mixed company. Others should not be repeated under any circumstances.

Regardless, I continue on in my writing. Not because of some divine providence, but because I believe to do otherwise is to be dishonest and unfaithful to myself as a Writer.

Perhaps some day what I do now will make all the difference.

This is where the world begins.

This is how the world begins.

This is why the world endures.