I have been working on a novel for so long now if it ever gets published I should think that all things formerly impossible would choose then to prove themselves otherwise. The way Danielle Steel dispels her writing you would think she did it in between sex breaks and after the warm memory of her climax draws to an end so does her next novel (for lack of a better word).
But then again she writes for a different audience all together. And all the while I pray for these people, pray for their souls, pray that their lives may find more concrete meaning, more worth, and higher purpose than in the confines of the sappy and romantic universes that Steel chooses to inflict so successively, so cruelly upon the world. Such a time should and will come when I finally write my book. Not to mention in precise coincidence with the flimsy wisps and grayed shadows of ghosts roaming my mind in insistent demand for release in the form of writing. While this sounds vain, I do not doubt as do all the vain, that it is as honest as I can ever possibly be for I believe in this as though it were The Christ child come from the heavens hands scarred and all.
And while urgent grows this need with each passing year, blank remains my writers canvas.(Maybe that’s why…I’m trying to write on canvas…a lol moment back there). My hand hovers over the blank page hungry for the blood of the massacre of the purity that is the pages’ blankness and… nothing. I fail yet again to put down that satisfactory enough that I might let another read it and offer criticism, remain cocooned in what I know as a black hole devoid of inspiration and drive.
