My Pen is like that terrible boy wanting to take out my imagination on a date. Every time I pick it up, I am actually holding a shot gun to the pen’s head asking its intentions with my imagination.
Who are you, my eyes narrow.
I’m cool, bra, the pen sways with suffer swagger. The trigger is pulled and the pen is blown away.
That pen didn’t fit too well in my hand. Next pen.
What do you want with my mind?
I thought we’d go for a run down the paper, pen number two replies, with an aire of swauvitude that reeks of ill intention.
Tell me about your paper, I demand.
It’s just the one sheet, but don’t worry, it’s got lines to keep your mind safe, dark and intentional. Any wobbly mind could run along those lines without so much as a wobble!
BANG! I don’t like thick lines.
You better have something good to say, I threaten pen number three.
I just wanted to hear your mind out, see what it has to say. Perhaps make little doodles along the blank parts, draw your mind some flowers. Shucks, I just want to create something pretty, and I think your mind is all I need.
Alright, I can lower the gun for that one.
I won’t spout what this blog is about, after all, you can figure that out from the other pages I have on this thing. No, my intention as a writer are different than the efforts of this blog.
When I read, I see the world that someone has created, and I get wrapped up in it. If it’s done well, I am left with the disbelief that this person that “created” this world didn’t in fact live it. Anne Rice with Louis’s description of changing to a vampire to the journalist, is a prime example.
My intention is to leave a reader feeling that way, feeling as though I was the journalist, or that I was the vampire, relaying my story. That the experiences I create are real, in one world or another.
All dates with pens are simply experimentations, a recorded collection of experiences, thoughts, risks and musings.
My intention is to share with the world a new experience, or the same experience that the world never thought it could view differently. I have the love and the passion, but whether or not the skill is there to weave that perfect novel is an entirely different matter. There is the trial and error, but everything is just an exercise to see what I can build, finding my strengths.
The ultimate goal? To write for a living – and to do it without giving myself up, to be able to write the fiction I want to write.
I suppose that leads me a little bit into the next post in the series, the How I Came To Be, part.