Saturday, April 23, 2016
A novel is an exceedingly odd thing. It has a life, or at least a half-life of its own. When I tried to breath some life into it, it wouldn't budge. When though I listened to it and let it tell me what it wanted me to tell of itself, well, at least it limped along. That said, I clearly didn't know what I was doing. Maybe that was a better state of mind from which to write. Had I known anything, anything at all, nothing at all would have been born. Ignorance, is not bliss, but it is certainly fecund, and pregnant even with hard-earned truths. If anyone stumbles across this book, yes, it's odd, but there is some quirky jiggly reality to it.
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