July 7, 2003
I stare at the pages... they make no sense. They are just words that have been put together to deceive the mind. Written to tell a story. Written to stir the imagination. I stare at the pages waiting for the meaning to pop out at me. Letter by letter formulation to worlds that have only been visited by the inventor.
I've pondered the thought of writing. What is the deeper meaning to the words that people write. The hidden agendas or the underlying themes that only the author understands. I try to imagine a world that exist only in another's mind. Sometimes the point gets across and sometimes it's all wrong, but when done right, there is no better literary art form than what is there, what is written. What power in these words that allow us to see the worlds in our minds. Movie trying to make their adaptation with lack of justice. Try to duplicate the imagination interpreted by the reader.
The deceit is that there are no words. There
are no characters or main plots. No climaxes or twist. Just a blank page I
stare at. I wait for the words to fill my page to tell the story. The mind
blank. I stare at the page. It'll all come.