The regeneration of Frank Sinatra, his voice is smooth. I'm listening to him right now. Sweet, his voice is. But I consider the soothing harmonic lyrics he molds to be a facáde. How Can we grow? I ask myself.
I've only recently settled on the topic for my first novel, not to say that it will be published (or my first published book), but the first book it will be. In a way, the writing will wrench my heart, make me question how strong I am. I've proven how weak I can be at times, but only recently have I questioned again the power inside myself. The feeling is wonderous, like a child exploring nature. Intoxicating too. So, after meeting someone, I have been posed that question: How strong am I? Are we all? Sure, we are separated by body and ideal, but our soul is unified between us all, like a loaf of bread divided between us all.
I hear Michael Bublé in my mind sometimes when I think on who I am. Sure, what I write is broken and swirls like toilet water, swirls like a diabetic ice-cream machine, icing on a cinnamon roll, or like an absent-minded students scrawlings. I wonder if anyone can makes sense of my metaphor, if it does good to edit, to revise and shape my writing at all, since its too muddled to form cognative prose anyhow. Anyhow, I will test myself (and the Bublé stereophonics of my mind) in the course of this book, which in Thoreauvian in nature (not literally, but idealistically) and will center all that is known within the self. I don't purport a philosopher's mind. I haven't read enough classics to do so, but one day. One day I will, and this will be my first step in that direction and a shift of my efforts on personal pain as a triumphs. Sounds awefully, terribly confusing, I know. BUt follow me here. I'll put this note in the back of the book, if it were written better. Maybe if I revise it . . .
A note: I do wonder how this new avenue will breed life in me. How this new work will shift my focus. How my personal life will mold itself around the words I write, how they will affect who I am, and how who I turn into will shape my writing. Another terrible and confusing sentence, but it sure makes some sense to me. To begin the novel.