Sometimes it takes a bit of rubbing shoulders with creativity to come home with the residue to write.
Inspired by others–though I be intimidated by Marquez, my solitary source for quite a while now–I may have discovered paths to take that lead in new directions in a constant and more private journey.
My smelly scholar, Few, a garbage heap who learns the love of books, may take yet another leap into hypertext.
Update: Within the hour reality opines: The writing is above average perhaps, but not earth-crashing-into-sun great. What I’ve been learning from reading is the story within story that sets a tale apart. The deeper meaning or possibility of interpretation that raises it above entertainment. As the dawn finally reveals the details dimly still in the room of my mind, I can see nothing of any great import, nothing of mine to giftwrap and present, nothing so vital that need be shared to inspire or move others.
Really, I don’t think I have anything worthwhile to give, and fine writing is only a ribbon of text binding an empty box of truth.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
You should buy “Vanya on 42nd Street” DVD at first opportunity.