Pretty girls think I should post in my blog, so I guess I will.
I am generally regarded by those who have read my written works, (as small a number as those may be,) as "quite a good writer and if you ever complete this story I would really like to read it." I have recently taken to rereading some of my more thought provoking and well crafted works of literature, there are two, maybe three of them so this takes a lot less time then one may first imagine.
I have baffled myself. I do not have the slightest idea as to how I have written the stories or essays that I have. I am not trying to toot my own horn here. I'm not even in the process of blowing my own kazoo. But I do believe there are a few stories that I have written that are far better then anything I could possible have produced. Now to the untrained mind this may seem like some sort of impossibility or paradox, but it isn't.
You see what has obviously happened is I have intercepted the thoughts of someone much more talented then me and have stolen them for myself. Without meaning to, or even knowing it at the time, I have become a literary thief. A cat-burglar of stories. A confidence man of fables. I suppose that it could be a familial trait, my great (times five) grand uncles where the Gimm brothers, and if they could steal the fairy tales from the townspeople of Germany, then I suppose that I can highjack the thoughts of some other author. I do wonder if perhaps I should dress more appropriately for the occasion.
"I feel like writing a few lines about how the sun shines upon the fresh cut grass, I'll just put on my mask and gloves."
Or
"I do believe I could add another chapter to my novel, let me just go get my gun"
I'm fearful that this thievery will catch up with me one day. I'll be walking along enjoying a cool autumn day and an angry man will leap out of the shadows waving a ragged notebook full of bad prose at me and demanding I take responsibility for what are rightfully my creations. I'll be forced to sign my name to countless manuscripts, all of them bad stories about love or dead cats.
Maybe I'll just lock myself in a basement so that the person I'm stealing from can't find me. Or I'll go on the run, just a man and his pencil. Yeah, that sounds like a good idea, I'll see you in Tijuana, suckers!
I am generally regarded by those who have read my written works, (as small a number as those may be,) as "quite a good writer and if you ever complete this story I would really like to read it." I have recently taken to rereading some of my more thought provoking and well crafted works of literature, there are two, maybe three of them so this takes a lot less time then one may first imagine.
I have baffled myself. I do not have the slightest idea as to how I have written the stories or essays that I have. I am not trying to toot my own horn here. I'm not even in the process of blowing my own kazoo. But I do believe there are a few stories that I have written that are far better then anything I could possible have produced. Now to the untrained mind this may seem like some sort of impossibility or paradox, but it isn't.
You see what has obviously happened is I have intercepted the thoughts of someone much more talented then me and have stolen them for myself. Without meaning to, or even knowing it at the time, I have become a literary thief. A cat-burglar of stories. A confidence man of fables. I suppose that it could be a familial trait, my great (times five) grand uncles where the Gimm brothers, and if they could steal the fairy tales from the townspeople of Germany, then I suppose that I can highjack the thoughts of some other author. I do wonder if perhaps I should dress more appropriately for the occasion.
"I feel like writing a few lines about how the sun shines upon the fresh cut grass, I'll just put on my mask and gloves."
Or
"I do believe I could add another chapter to my novel, let me just go get my gun"
I'm fearful that this thievery will catch up with me one day. I'll be walking along enjoying a cool autumn day and an angry man will leap out of the shadows waving a ragged notebook full of bad prose at me and demanding I take responsibility for what are rightfully my creations. I'll be forced to sign my name to countless manuscripts, all of them bad stories about love or dead cats.
Maybe I'll just lock myself in a basement so that the person I'm stealing from can't find me. Or I'll go on the run, just a man and his pencil. Yeah, that sounds like a good idea, I'll see you in Tijuana, suckers!