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April 12, 2007
For the longest time...
... I have wanted to write.
Not be ABLE to write, but just to do.
Specifically, in this context, I always thought it would be great to write about someone's life - someone fictional.
At first it would be easy to invent little escapades and picaresque asides, but gradually, the characters would take on a life of their own.
Some day I know I would find myself chattering away on the keyboard, trying to fashion another adventure for my little invisible friends. I might be ored, or the sun might slant a certain way through the curtains, catch some dust and reveal a sunbeam to me - a vision that would bring me back to a happy moment sitting on a bus on a late summer afternoon, making my way home from a girlfriends house, thinking how things don't get much better.
Memory, being a powerful thing, might kidnap my imagination for a spell, my thoughts might jump rail and the once predictable character that I had come to know and love would start to act as if he had been possessed.
It might be interesting to see if some humanities major could fathom the reasons behind the change of heart - if only humanities hadn't been gutted by post-modernism (where every opinion has boarded the yellow bus and is now considered 'special', worthy and unique, just like every other opinion...) that might be the case.
More likely - you, gentle reader, would knit your brow and ejaculate (in the non-sexual sense) with the phrase 'huh?'
And that would be that - readership null and void, again.
No more late night supper clubs in attendance with nubile young ladies, no moonlight drives with exotic. married women toting unlabeled bottles of alcohol of foreign and unknown providence.
No. That way - the way of the author - lies madness.
I'll just drink cheap wine and surf for porn like the rest of the world.
Good night!
Posted by dottie at April 12, 2007 12:16 AM
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