Really it’s the ultimate bet for a gambler, and you have to be a little bit of a narsassist to think you might be the next best storyteller. I tell you it’s a full-time job just convincing myself I can write a single page, and the next thing I know when I stop thinking about it and playing with the God-Given picture book that is my imagination suddenly I have ten, and it isn’t even noon yet.

Ready, set… en Fuego…


I’m getting ready to construct a new draft of the same story I’ve written about four times, all 262 plus pages, scrawled endlessly, each edit less wordy and eccentric than the one before it. It can become an obsession well is never better left alone, a confession any writer can nod along with I’m convinced. Some piece of my humanity is bound and determined to lose its mind in pursuit of the perfect version. I know this trait to be true in me and my will it lead me on a goose chase.

At a certain point, I have to let it go to somebody less close to the picture than me. And since the professionals don’t seem to want me. I am going to do the same thing I’ve recently done with my children’s book.

Send it to an independent editor, just like me, a reject or maybe they’ve set out on their journey solo on purpose.

It took me a few wrong conclusions to figure out my theory could use a change in direction. In order to find it, I had to get through the noise pollution building in my mind. I find peace in plants and quiet environments. Not to mention my best friends are the two beings I spend all my time with. My reality is haunted by music, soundtracks I’m sure others have bled for.

As a starving artist dependent on the universes kindness and an interest in my craft. I understand that the gift I’m striving to bring to the table might save someone’s life as some of my favorite books did for me. It’s my two cents, I’ll bring them to stix in the end with me and feel no regret on what I left behind me. That’s the hope anyway.

The trouble is finding the right words to describe the scenes playing in front of me. and the turbulent spins they’ve placed on my environment, I swear the ghosts of my characters haunt me in the faces I see. As if little traits show up as a nod from my muses, that pair way to perfectly with the personalities playing like a movie screen over my mind.

A dance with reapers and secret keepers alike, a mutual respect forms.

“I am your opposite,” I whisper to them when asked for mine. “I am that because I choose it, I know my ability and choose not to abuse it. I see you though.”

Then we bow and they fade out, dematerializing before me, I know they’ll be back.

Attention and intentions beginning most sweetly with both my beauties and the beasts. I know there’s more to each story than I could ever hope to see but my characters breed a weird empathy in me. I feel I understand more clearly, Good and bad depends on the sense of value and the ability to conceive what might be best not just independently but for everyone in my reality.

Now see, look at me off on a tangent. My fingers sometimes move only so fast and before I know it what’s running through my mind in a stream seems to have poured in a sort of sorted manner onto my computer screen. Thank you for spending your time with me. Let me know if you’d like to hear more thoughts on this topic. ❤

Ciao, for now, lovelies


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