Thursday, March 1, 2012

A Short Short Story

“Come step outside yourself and walk a while with me along the shore of non-reality; experience for yourself a life not bound by the limits of must have’s and must do’s. Enter a universe where potentialities are the building blocks of all that is and dance under the vast empty space of a blank page. I caution you however, leave behind your sense of propriety, it has no place in a world that has not yet been created...”, the pen coaxes the hand that at one time embraced it willingly to once again caress it lovingly.
The hand responds with wails of agony over the eternal inner conflict that the pens seductive advances have cause. The battle rages and though the hand wilfully resists the uncontrollable urges that are overwhelming it, in the end it will succumb, suffering defeat to the pen that always wins.
Since the beginning of time, it has always been this way.
I think the true mystery of it all is that it is still a mystery...
I’m not sure how long I was an author before I figured it out, it may have been something I have secretly known for years but was unwilling to admit. Certainly I must have scratched the surface of it on some deep unconscious level those many years ago when I accidently discovered I was a writer; I just never had the courage to dive in and explore the black murky waters of an artisan’s mind. Having your work published makes you an author, but being an author does not make you a writer. In this case it is possible that this dirty little skeleton in the closet of the writers’ world is the kind of thing that only a writer instinctively knows should never be spoken of.