Isn’t your heart still mine? I want to cry sometimes.
Namaste blog tribe
I’ve been on holiday for five days, official. I’m booking my ass off. Reading fictional verse leaves me reflecting on the feint lover collective I have experienced over the past 36-months. Because after all, Novel is based on torment of the heart.
As an Artist, shagging is irrelevant when it comes to lovers. My heart has been stolen and chewed by a countless amount of strangers who I never slept with. But boy… did we have an amazing time, or three.
I don’t want to let you know that it’s killing me… I know you’ve got another life, you’ve got to concentrate -baby…
I made it through a collection of chapters today. Around 12,000 words. This is the important part I think.
I realize I have to be a bit lighter on myself. Meaning: it isn’t necessary to re-write a 300 word paragraph six times to meet my own perception of “perfection”. I mean, so many other “writers” happily pen shit and make a living off it. I don’t need my book to be published in order to support myself in the center of New York City, my dream. I’ve already got that.
I just want to publish something that I’m proud of. And for me to be “proud” in this sense, we’re talking best seller. At 34, I’ve already succeeded at supporting myself independently as a Writer, but man – a NY Times listing would sure compliment that.
In between, I’m certainly in love with hiding time.