I’ve written the better part of a page of something or other, and sent it packing, to my ever-lengthening documents folder. There’s so much to be seen there, and having not memorized the file names, we’ll be lost when we try to resurrect anything. I’ve got this effort going. When you’ve been desperate enough for a few thoughts to be put on screen, you’ll take nothing down, to continue to be an author.
This work is an effort to succeed in doing some writing for the reader’s benefit. If you’d like, please hear me out. I’ve gone to great lengths to perpetuate this document to get something to offer for a general effort. At least, I’m going to use proper English throughout. On my honor. You’re not going to find any “verbs” or obscenities, couched within the process of meandering about this narrative.
I make no pretense of avoiding my own point, or losing my train of thought for some reason. I’ve done my best to tell a proper story. My mind only evades a train of thought utterly, as long as I struggle to be entertaining nonetheless. In fact, I feel so thoroughly to have lost my focus, but wish to continue to be productive. I’ve tried my level best to succeed at telling a coherent story, but there’s no use.
I haven’t the focus to lend to any structured writing. Working to achieve some semblance of fiction, the result has been what you see hear. I wonder have I overthrown my sanity, struggling to make sense out of nonsense, after seeing my own therapist this very morning. Well, there’s not much danger of protracting some sort of psychosis, because of the idea that it would have been diagnosed forthwith.
Having been diagnosed, which is not the case at the moment, ah, to be graced with yet another active psychosis, has always been a fascination of mine. I enjoy the behavior of the world around me when I’m psychotic. It’s a spell of mania that sends my whole imagination reeling with fear. For one thing, I’m told I experience some sort of seizure activity in my brain, and don’t know how much to expect.
I began to realize that, with the remaining work on the work bench, it was not especially presentable to the general public. The problem with it’s predecessor, is that it was too obtuse for me to harvest a germ of thought. The initial story, the one with the mystique building, the one I cannot publish, was some regrettable thing about social interaction. It was not appropriate for the public eye.
I don’t mean it involved any published obscenities. No way, Jose. I’m not making a statement about writers being too choice-y, I’m taking a stand here about the quality of where my writing’s concerned. I care about what I have made to put out there for my readership to see. I’d rather not give some sort of improper literature to be put into the hands and minds of my efforts, from my workbench.
Needless to say, I’m having to begin again. I only got put out with myself. I start again at bare bones. The spirit of self effacing has found it’s way among my allies, as if a page was ever anything more honest than any other, but I’ve foraged ahead with a new project. It’s going to happen, I can feel it. I’ve got my mind’s eye working this until I’m thoroughly satisfied the story is for the public eye.
I would have taken a page, if I could have given one. The party guy would be more likely to find his way into my text editor and surreptitiously procure what the meaning is of this rant. I’ve been doing this, ever since yesterday evening. I’m not so certain to believe I’m overdrawn on public approval, because that other story would certainly make it to the junk heap, long before I ever publish this one.
I’ve wrapped this story in an average title page, which no writer should ever do. It is recommended the file name be memorable. I certainly need to concoct something outstanding here. All mysteries are here for the reader to unravel. It’s required of a writer to assign some title for a file name. The author hopes the public will grasp at the word. This practice is standard among processors.
I’ve been applying myself to pressing shirts, proverbially. I must press on. One of the many complexities of meandering, aimless discourse, is that I make the slightest bit of sense in the long run. I realize this seems way beyond my point, if I ever had one. I labor to make any sort of sense out of this falderal, whatsoever. Why make sense? Well, it would seem the reader’s requirement, not mine.
With the narrative begging to be sensible, and the efficacy of this author’s credibility laying in the balances, one might think there is some germ of sense to be had from all of this, when there’s really not. I try to muster mortar to my manuscript, in order to give some impetus to the work somewhere in the literary scheme of things. Without that, I labor in vain. I’m vain enough already.
I’ve been hammering away at some new and different story, ever since boasting and bragging about it’s counterpart. The other wasn’t worth spit. The idea in writing something is to be coherent when I can, and keeping as much of what gets written down as I can. The whole effort must seem inane, the way I go on about nothing, but this whole work is a exercise in making something of meandering thoughts.