On The Writing Life

I have a recurring nightmare.

My work is piled high, locked deeply in some forbidden cavern. Cobwebs weave their dusty fingers in and out of the pages; mold and mildew have managed to take hold on delicate pages, slowly consuming the words that I have fought so hard to find. My thoughts lay languishing away, no reader to bring them to life, no editor to give them mouth to mouth. Hours of searching through dictionaries and reference materials now rot away into dust, endless nights of work turned into nothing more than ash.

Such is the dream of an aspiring writer, one who churns out words, a seemingly never ending stream of conciousness. I suppose that is what you could call this little treatise, my stream of conciousness. If a work is left unread, squandered, what happens to it? Does it wither away, passing into eternity with nothing but a sigh? Or perhaps it rots, putting forth a stench that only the author can smell, the odor of unrealized dreams, more putrid than a decomposing animal left on hot pavement.

As for my work, I will continue. My words are morbid at best, disturbing to most, but they are my words, and I will continue slinging them. I will hurl them at the publishing world, flinging my thoughts with an almost evil glee. I will dare them to ignore my vitriol, for, where talent doesn't prevail, persistence often does! So I send out my clarion call to all you authors out there, and you know who you are. Keep up the submissions, give them no rest. Worse case scenario, you can always paper a room with your rejection slips. Best case scenario, you may touch a reader, just one reader, who will just for a brief twinkle of time dwell in your world and know whereof you write.