The Truth Within the Lie

I try to be patient, but where's the patience gone?  I keep writing because I can't stop, like an IV I'm too weak to pull from my arm--let it drip its madness intravenously.  I stumble; I just want to express myself.  Before people I'm dull; I stutter; I have nothing to say--I envy their excitement and their energy.  I can be friendly, but to me it feels like putting distance between us. 

Is this more profound a blog post than one written in a meticulous academic style?  It's hard to tell the truth, to tell the truth within the lie.

I started another novel.  This is in it:

    “ZigZig told me about other worlds.  One’s in there,” Denny says in Harlan’s only produced film outside of the porn industry.
    Denny’s father: “In where?”
    “There,” Denny says, pointing at the TV screen jagged with snow, his face soft with wonder.
    “What’s it like in there?”
    “Lightning and fire.”  A whisper: “Lightning and fire.”

And that's it, isn't it?  That sums it up.  That's what we're all looking for.  Lightning and Fire. 

Okay, that was a nice little break, but the little slave driver in my head (who wears classical masks of drama, carries a three-pronged whip, and smells of BO and sausage--don't ask me why) is telling me to get back to work.  What is this nonsense?  Quit messing around.  Write your damn novel, you fool!

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