Writing the great novel

Most writers hope to write the novel that outlasts a single run in publication. I am no different. But I won’t write formula which seems to be the road to lots of sales and notice. So what writers have written their own pathway, ignoring the main road. Perhaps James Joyce. Perhaps George Eliot when she was looking at her work in her feminine mirror without a male identity to hide it. Perhaps Dostoyevsky who was writing in his own blood and tears. I have a novella which is coming out for publication. I have no idea about any formula to shape it. Great or soon forgotten?

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Shutting Ears

When men rail at me I do not care to listen. I have heard volcanos sigh and seas roar out their displeasure at men’s mastery. The hunger of the winds has drowned out my thoughts. The thunder over scaled me in my answers. I am not given to the scream, but to the silence to let it pass. I await the stillness that takes away the pain of anger. My ears are filled with quiet when they surrender to my lack of answer.

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Looking Past the Obvious

On this world of masking we now are straining to guess what the masks hide? Where is the expression of reality that lives beneath such faces as we contrive to hide our true ones? Is there a face under that contrived suggestion we want to convey? Bare-faced lies? or just masked lies?

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Crows in the Garden

Their midnight presence contrasts to the scattering of bluejays, cardinals, and white bellied snowbirds. They are hungry. They are hungry enough to war with the usual guests at the seed table we present. Their call is sharp and definite. Their wings make gestures of dismissal. They will eat inspite of the protests around them. A murder of crows? Don’t discount it!

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Endless Virus

The fate filled cry of Henry II about will anyone ever rid him of this priest, and the turmoil that followed seem to be some warning when we ask will anyone rid us of this virus so life can go on for us as we would like it to. We are tired of endless virus, masks, quarantines, fear of contagion. And yet in our haste to leave this current state we may in the end be making it worse yet. I don’t know if my impatience comes too soon. Or just at the right moment.

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Dangling Pardons

Pardon me, but I have questions when people receive pardons. Is it a sort of belated permission for bad behavior? or a welcome release from guilt? or just a chance to re-do an element of life that led one stray?

I worry about the mentality that puts a “Get Out Of Jail” card in the hands of those who made it into jail with bad intent. On the other hand, there are those who stumbled, who need a hand to help them up.

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Smudges of Grey

The universe does not stand still even if we do. We smudge up the skies with our grey. Just by standing in place as the cosmos moves about us. We change, by refusing to move. Now that my walking is limited physically, I need to dance in my head. I need to turn, to pirouette to the ballet where perhaps I do not belong….am I now just audience?

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Sudden Movement

The running of child footsteps towards the door that opens up into next year. It moves us too in our excitement as to what could be waiting. The future still has the power to sweep us along on expectation.

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Thoughts Scattering Like Autumn Leaves

Was up in Montreal last week. The Canadians are an interesting bunch, melting French culture into British. There is a sense of the familiar with the exotic to see this world. Ask me to pick out something new and I would say the air which seemed washed of any pollution. I came home with new thoughts and looks and dreams.

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The Slow Movement of Autumn

Time has a symphony going every year. Autumn slows the music. I see the crescendo coming with Winter, but right now there is the acceptance reluctantly that it is all over for the summer. I need to get in step.

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