The problem I have had as a writer is that I am blind to the elemental nature of story. I cannot scribble further than my nose. My characters are plegic deaf-mutes who dialogue gibberish and adventure into a plot of unsold film.
In my day dreams, I compose epic tales. I create archetypal characters who start simple but achieve greatness. Who, with a sword, ray gun, and spell book, save the multiverse from the entropy of nature. However, I have failed to complete a novel, which is probably why I write poetry.
The words I compose spin round and around a single feeling. I tend to describe it with a wind screaming through a grove of alder trees along the licking shores of a shallow creek.
But ever since I started back at employment, the earth of my mind has emptied itself like the pages filling a blank journal. My book is un-writing itself into a white expanse of hushed chaos.
---William James, 10/24/2012