The book I am trying to write – lies to me. It promises me a conclusion but only gives me blank pages and blank stares. It humiliates me with my futility. That void pretends to wait for words but it doesn’t want me to damage its perfection with my literary smears. It prefers a white page with hope to the crumpled balls of my creativity which litter the floor near the trash bin.
My book wishes it was in the competent hands of Shakespeare, Vonnegut, Kafka, Eco, Bronte or even a hack who can barely make any sense or sentences. If only I could show the same promise as an everyday hack. At least a hack puts himself out there. He never has crumpled balls of his creations. Every ounce of his sweat and creativity can be seen in his work.
The empty pages of my novel are angered by me. They would rather exist in the world of a truly awful writer than in the mind of a writer who has awful excuses. Cruuummpled.