by Jill Amadio
Yesterday I watched a three-hour TV documentary on Henry David Thoreau. The life of the writer, poet, essayist, photographer, and author of several books, including “Walden,” was laid out in phenomenal detail. His opinions, deep thoughts, and reflections later led me to realize, as I subsequently watched “Murder, She Wrote,” that I have no such thoughts. I rarely reflect on nature, as Thoreau did, although I appreciate and enjoy it tremendously when I look out my slider at the newly budding trees that look back at me. I greet them every morning, but unless there is a decent breeze to indicate some kind of response by shaking their leaves, they ignore my enthusiastic “hello, there!”
The longer I listened and watched the history of Thoreau’s output of 20 volumes, the more I came to realize that my own thoughts and reflections are quite shallow.
I have no profound insights to share with readers, no cutting-edge philosophy to present as my own, no Thoreau-style literary observations.
But all is not lost, I comforted myself. My brand new reflection after that three-hour devotion to one of America’s most revered writers (born 1817 in Concord, Massachusetts) is that it is acceptable to be shallow. I have quite a few friends I regard lovingly as shallow, at least by the way they write and demonstrate, by their talks with me.
Shallow is sometimes a reputation given to mystery writers who write solely to present a puzzle. For this, they are to be celebrated and congratulated. Figuring out plots and sub-pots is, to my mind, quite an exercise in innovation, subtlety, at least a partial knowledge of forensics and weaponry, and, above all, a good grasp of human behavior. Yet these attributes and talents are not always appreciated.
Writers are urged to observe people in cafes, employees and bosses at work, and various situations that can provide grist for the mill.
A couple of blank faces stared back at me in my writing class last week when I talked about this, one of my favorite idioms. Grist for the mill that can provide an overwhelming preponderance of research we can’t use, or exactly the clue we are seeking to complete the puzzle.
I think that shallow thoughts are a gift. They prevent us from digging too deeply into a subject, wasting precious writing time on too much information. Shallow thoughts, however, can become too simplistic when we write ridiculous plots and create absurd characters.
On the other hand, an advantage of shallowness is a sense of freedom that comes with writing whatever we like and to heck with traditional publishers. Hail Amazon’s KDP!
Admittedly, several books published on their site are a waste of money, but they can serve as a lesson in what not to create.
I have not heard the word “shallow” spoken anywhere, perhaps never, not even with regard to the ocean or swimming pools. Yet to my mind, the word sounds exactly like the condition it is describing: of little depth.
I am not offended by my shallowness. It affords a certain caché to a sentence when written for all levels of readers, especially foreigners.
Another writing exercise I sometimes enjoy is substituting “shallow” for a word, turning a sentence into a conundrum that requires more thought than originally written, simply by considering the replacement.
I read that Thoreau advocated abandoning waste and illusion to discover life’s true essential needs. I’m not quite sure what that all means, but it is probably extremely profound. A writer’s needs are, I am sure, infinitesimal compared to those of the great writer when he wrote in longhand, while we have the luxury of laptops.
Thoreau died in 1861 at the age of 44, but his wide-ranging output and influence spanned abolitionism, civil disobedience, and world figures, including Mahatma Gandhi, Tolstoy, and Martin Luther King. All I seem to influence is my neighbor’s Beagle when it wants a treat.
Among my shallow thoughts are those of finances. How would I ever be able to afford the clothes with which to meet King Charles III, George Clooney, or Ralph Lauren? My shoe collection has dwindled to a few flat Mary Janes, and all my heels have gone to Goodwill.
Whither my latest mystery? Awaiting a bolt from the blue, or at the very least, a few shallow thoughts with which to proceed.






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