Writings scatter to the winds blank checks in an insane charge. And were they not such flying leaves, there would be no purloined letters.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
I became a connoisseur of that nasty thud a manuscript makes when it comes through the letter box.
And so our mothers and grandmothers have, more often than not anonymously, handed on the creative spark, the seed of the flower they themselves never hoped to see - or like a sealed letter they could not plainly read.
Writing is a marvelous adventure and very labor-intensive: those words run away and try to escape. They are very difficult to capture.
The handwriting on the wall may be a forgery.
I had expected that at some point during the first draft a light would go on, and I would understand, finally, how to write a book. This never happened. The process was akin to blindly walking in the dark, feeling my way only by touch, and only recognising dead ends when I smacked into them.
We found letters at the house we bought from a sailor to his wife who lived in the house. He went down to the Caribbean on this trader vessel, bringing down salted fish. There would be handwritten letters, but also telegrams, saying which ports he was in. And he'd be gone for three months. That was just the way it is.
No texting. What happens then? Good old-fashioned letters.
We printed all the words out because otherwise nobody would be able to understand them.
Words empty as the wind are best left unsaid.
The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.