Thursday, October 18, 2012
More Liberty from Insanity
The title is only half in jest. As life imitates art so does an article on the BBC site proclaim that many writers would become mad, save for their art. I've never felt close to mad, even when I worked with mad folks I never felt any contagion. But I did write a blog to that effect and constructed a couple of tweets on the subject. The basic theory is that genius and madness are divided by a cigarette paper and writing keeps such people from falling into the abyss. At a lesser level (I am not claiming great things for my prose) writing keeps me from feeling profoundly angry with my lack of literary output. I don't like sulking and so to have begun another novella leaves me at the end of the day feeling chipper. Here's the beginning. It seems to be called, Easeful Death. I have plagiariswd phrases fom the 19th century romantic poets for a couple of recent titles.
Easeful Death
What
should be
your reaction when the Messenger speaks about the end of days? Your end
of
days? Had you really considered it before this point? Had you taken
notice of
the nods and winks and grimaces of your physiology or the raised
eyebrows and
sudden stern expression of the harbinger of this prognostication, your
GP?
Had it even sunk in when you first set off to meet the Messenger in his
swivel-chaired, Formica den with its strip lighting and touch screen
computer, linked
to all the data bases of the hospital?
Labels: #Writing: a new start.
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