Ok, not all that earlier bit was true. You know that. I know that. We all give a damn what others think. Often, the more one claims to not care what others think, the more they actually do care. Reverse psychology meet delusion, Delusion meet reverse psychology.
I wrote a story called Marcus and submitted it to a short story contest online. I lost. The contest is based on votes garnered not talent displayed. The winning entry was about vampires, time travel, and destiny. Marcus is about karma, free will, and pedophilia. While I was bitching & moaning to my wife she asked me,

“Are you a literary writer or a pop writer?”

Um, who knows? What I learned with that short story contest was that promotion matters as much , if not MORE, than talent or plot twists or universality. It is… I started this blog to create a following so one day I could tell an editor or publisher, “X number of people follow my blog online each day.” I don’t know.

There’s an idea floating around in my too-large-for-my-body head. Tom Robbins writes about 500 words per day when developing a novel. It is maddening to his publisher and editors but delightful to his readers. Robbins’s novels are filled with short chapters containing dense, imaginative sentences. This is from the Robbins novel,

    Another Roadside Attraction.

And then the rains came. They came down from the hills and up from the sound. And it rained a sickness. And it rained a fear. And it rained an odor. And it rained a murder. And it rained dangers and the pale eggs of the beast. Rain poured for days, unceasing. Flooding occurred. The wells filled with reptiles. The basements filled with fossils. Mossy-haired lunatics roamed the dripping peninsulas. Moisture gleamed on the beak of the raven. Ancient Shamans rained from their homes in dead tree trunks, clacked their clamshell teeth in the drowned doorways of forests. Rain hissed on the freeway. It hissed at the prows of fishing boats. It ate the old warpaths, spilled the huckleberries, ran into the ditches. Soaking. Spreading. Penetrating. And it rained an omen. And it rained a poison. And it rained a pigment. And it rained a seizure.

That’s not too easy. At least from where I’m sitting. That is the type of writing I dig. The type I read and understand without thinking. An innate gotcha moment that defies articulation. I admire the hell out of that in your mind, capture your eye writing. One or two clear sentences buttressed by these metaphors that build on one another without effort.

Ok, I’m at word count 463. 500 words a day it is. Why not? Yes, I do want an audience. Yes, I do want someone to notice. But for now, I’ll be satisfied with my 500 words a day.

As always,
John.

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