i thought i would sit each day collecting clever phrases...
to use in the brilliant novel
that i would pour my whole being into.
turns out being a real writer, isn't that romantic.
it was going to be dramatic.
the beautiful story of a daughter after her father's heart.
the fact that he is sleeping right across the room from me,
is hardly romantic either.
i would write about his imagined history.
my imagination, not his.
now i wonder if my imagination can even stretch beyond my fingers.
let alone create a whole novel with actual characters
in actual settings, situations with meaningfully mundane conversations
about a life that is not so romantic.
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