Are you ok?

I have a gaping wound in my chest.

but its cool

it's all good

Your trivial small talk staunched the bleeding

Your tourniquet of indifference was first aid 

just what I needed

I'm find now

I'll just sit here with this giant hole in my heart

It's fine. 

The starter novel

I want to write a starter novel.

A piece of literary fixer-upper. 

I'll shop it around, evaluate and appraise, have a hoard of well intentioned word-owners give their 2 cents. 

I want to write a starter novel.

The written word equivalent of a shared duplex, lived-in, renovated, but not too renovated. Never quite clean like it was, with a nice coat of paint. Cracks carefully hidden, leaking plot holes plastered over, "room to grow" they'll say.

My starter novel will leave me bitter. "I've been there" I'll say. I got my feet wet. Too wet. My start novel will leave me cynical. "You have no idea" I warn. My starter novel will leave me yearning. Brief flings with short fiction, a puff piece or two, but nothing will ever come close to that first bite, moving day, taste of the written word, still not convinced I'm not the imposter I think I am.

I want to write a starter novel. So I can know that I can do it. To pack a U-Haul with textual glory and say, "look out world, I have a voice."

Butter Notes

 

This is fine.