The Origin of First Novel



Words are immortal.

A scene, for years, my mind protested.

Too frantic a life it shamed denial.

I would like to say a fire of will was ushered,

Truly it was the void, of no distraction left.

In curiosity, the scene became wanted

Yearning to witness the words, I exclaimed at the keyboard.

Passionate and demented strokes, driving their narrative in flow.

In hilarity, the scene became a chapter and that chapter became illuminated after twenty instalments.

A story was born, an origin story unlike any other but like some.

Characters became emotion, emotion became flaws and flaws became doorways to humanity.

“A cure exists! A cure exists!” I bellow to the skies,

Hurting ten ways to Sunday in no sleep patterns of pungent coffee and teeth-staining Death sticks.

I curl the fetus and clutch the airplane, headaches bruising my corneas.

The story was realized, without outright complaint, at twenty-six instalments.

A graph was thought into creation, a graph to illustrate both character tags and word counts.

It was not the summit that congealed the suffering to enjoyment and wonder,

But the under-looked journey, in all its extreme sweat droplets.

Written and Smitten,

A writer I am.

Words are immortal. 

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