[I have been absent, but not completely ignorant of the words and actions of the world (sadly). I'm joining (finally) this last Thursday in September for the witty words that have been provided by Granny Annie all month. In October, the words and pictures will appear here on Tuesdays for those in the Southern Hemisphere. Which reminds me of a wonderful picture I saw once for those end-of-the-world doomsday preppers ... "Keep Calm and Remember ... It is Already Tomorrow in Australia!"]
I know. I know. I’ve been gone for a while. I took an arbitrary absence. A diminution in my writing. I have no plausible excuse, just an immense sense of being overwhelmed. It has caused me to temporize everything lately, which has only served to create more pandemonium in my garbled thought processes.
I wish I had the élan of other writers who can produce perfunctory ghost-written articles for income. But I am not able to bifurcate my desire for toothsome writing with what sometimes reads like vermicular spew. I have an edacious desire for words that fill me like wine in a crucible. To write meaninglessly is gauche. The resulting melee between my values and my wallet festers with an inhere greed that I cannot submit to.
The bona fides work of an author should be without question. Subjecting readers to anything less would make one a schadenfreude of a chthonic region. So, I submit myself to a regimen of splenetic work until the manumit of this onerous life, looking at meme of angry cats for entertainment, occasionally with a yawp of copacetic laughter.
If there were only a savant writer who could advise me. One who would not look at me with one arm akimbo, as though to wreak posture in a haphazard fashion. As if I were a tare set to vindicate my inability to write.
My dream of becoming a best-selling author is flat-hatting away from me. It is true I construed it was my inalienable destiny as the dithyramb of my sleep prodded me awake night after night like a sericeous mouse dropped in my bed by a ludic kitten. My fidelity to that dream makes no difference if I find myself becoming a poltroon.
No! It shall not happen. Instead, I repudiate the turpitude of those thoughts, and choose to assay the direction of my next book in the solitude of the autumn bosky before the winter snows fall and imprison me.