How I Feel About Books and Writing

I feel as though I will never achieve greatness or for that matter not even goodness. As they say “you are your own worst critic.” But if that were the case then nothing would ever reach the light of freaking day, unless we let things slide things we might even hate. Maybe I’ve just been reading too much heavy material, and maybe I am being overly dramatic about my work, even if all this is true it wont make me feel any better knowing its all just in my head, I feel so pathetic and insignificant what could I possibly say that hasn’t already been said or re-said?

There just pretty empty words.

I love the smell and feel of a book a good book an old book and new books or a short book its exhilarating and fascinating like having a new lover, and I have had many, many lovers some I hated some I felt were only adequate and all the others I have loved, more than love, adore admire, relish, and optically fixated. As I stroll through the bookstore and flirt and flit through potential lovers I have a feeling that no one else but me could feel so about books. THEIR JUST BOOKS I KNOW THAT! But these feelings are like second nature like animal instinct, compelled, magnetized, chained. How miserable you must think I am, how could anyone think of only books? Well I’ll tell you: I am in love with the written word. The process the frustration the inconceivable gratification from success, though I have never been one of the successful.

Which brings me back to my initial point, if anyone would care to remember, why do all my efforts seem to come to absolutely nothing I feel as though I cant see the forest through the trees, but I know I’m in the forest and hopelessly lost. I have seen the end result of work forced through such horrid trials of writers block, inspiration droughts and a complete and utter disgust for ones own work, and it lies in two places not one.

Either this new spawned bastard takes his place at the front of the menagerie and has a shiny new book cover that beckons to those who enter this intellectual red light district, or this miserable piece of refuse lands a splendid back flip on the table right behind the shiny grail of literature and is branded like mindless soulless cattle with a 30% off sticker and an Oprah recommended sign above its lackluster abhorrent little cover.

But even if this is the hellish outcome for some I feel not even my works (if any poor shumck ever came along and wanted to actually publish my trash) could have that impact it would not be deserving of the irremovable 30% percent off sticker, the sickeningly obnoxious Oprah sign, the second table, not even the contemptible stares made by shallow Abercrombie produced youth. Oh how I loathe my dollar tree style of writing!

I know how every thing should be down to the very last hair on the pigs chin, but to put into words of what I know inside to be remarkable is near impossible for me. My brain spasms with character building and writhes with plot holes. I believe I have been cursed for the willingness even eagerness to write but produce only well arranged turd’s on a silver plate.

I am an island and I am alone in my ocean of words.