Little by little the urges stroke my mind with whispers of "write it, write it down just as it feels." But these are foreign and familiar, avoided for a purpose, though not of self-protection but of a need for purity of originality. Writing what happens, even in disguise, to me is either non-fiction or "paint by numbers."
How does a writer turn the thoughts and emotion of reality into fable? Without a doubt, what my written fiction stories lack has been lived through and carried in me, and never given birth. Turmoil turns one lyrical, cynical, obsessive and reflective. Can one turn the mirror as well onto the page?
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
I could tell you. But you’re not gonna like it…
}:)
Go for it. I hate everything and everybody right now; most of all, myself. So it’s not like you’d be low man on the totem pole…
OK. It’s simple. Turn off your brain.
}:)