I just finished reading a book that convinced me I can't write. I always prided myself on my writing, but this author just blew me away (Tom Robbins). Okay, he's a big shot. But I do believe the fire has winked out in my muse. Or my pipe. Sadly, there's no pipe. My pilot light then. So I will try to jump start my metaphor mixer and ramp up the darn narrative of life which is the blog.
Your feedback is welcome.
Apparently you can post a comment just by clicking on comment.
The Rest of Life should be that easy!
Oh joy - the cleaning crew just drove up the driveway. I prefer to be left alone daytime. So the sound of the vacuums and sloshing and whatever they do is an intrusion. We need it, but I don't enjoy it. Wonder what Tom Robbins does?
You know, I did start to write a novel, which would be my second... the first went unpublished (I was co-author) and probably deserved to be lost (but it was the late 60s and you know what that meant!)
Unless you forgot, in which case you probably knew, but had memory loss.
See? I can get it back. This attitude de la wiseass.
I wonder if I should serialize the book (all 60 or 70 pages) here, or just set it aside till the time when I feel compelled to try to get it done. I think I fear it won't make any money and money drives me. Doing it for the exercise means little to me. Paydays do.
And so, there - ramblings on creativity, art versus commerce, and the Dyson vacuum's irritating sucking noise - all for you.