We tremble at the mercy of a pen, pinched words lost sentences in translation. A brain that is mercilessly stoic at times, we find ourselves engulfed in ideas and questions that keep us circulating hungrily for answers. Where do I see this work going? What is its progression? Who would it appeal to? I have half written up to a thousand books in my head, scribbled them out daintily signed and sealed the manuscripts posting them to some eager editor who awaited with baited breath. In reality I am still challenged by the quirks of constructing a novel, be it fiction or non,manuscripts are masterpieces of the mind, they are gateways into the soul , confiscating curtains which seal and barricade the mind from the truth. What you write may be fiction, but there is a part of it that awakens a sleeping Goliath, truth. Why is truth a Goliath, because in the mind as a writer it is so easily bent and folded, then after being worked and reworked , stands David, a shining reckless parable of complex components, yet a deeper truth. The truth is never hollow. It is founded upon stories that the eye whispers to it, and the ears gossip.
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