“This man’s imagination is relentless. The stories he comes up with, I’d never think about in a thousand years.”
“You say that, but just think about it, he claims that they’re true.”
“If they’re true, then I am the king of England.”
-Overheard, eavesdropping outside an apartment building, May 23.
Maybe that’s the wrong way to introduce myself, but I know no better way. I realize that I might strike the common observer as creepy, but I take joy in listening to other people’s conversations. I walk around and try to discern what is going on. It makes no difference to me, really. It’s just cheaper than television, and my life is just not interesting as is.
I know that I’m new at this, but who knows, maybe I’m destined for greatness. I’ll fill my story chock full of literary clichés and such foibles that are wont of a first time writer.
I know that I won’t be spellbinding, nor do I know how to pace action in a way that might allow for a quick page turning experience, but I need to get this story down. I am not interesting in any way, so if you’re still reading this, you are probably a kinsman, and feel that you must appease me and give support to my ludicrous dreams.
Where to start, where to start?
Ok, I got it. I’ve had enough of authors lamenting their unhappiness and cloistering themselves into the sanctity of their domiciles. I am unhappy, teetering on the edge of sanity, but I’ve learned to accept this, and now you must too. I will not tell you about myself. This is the story of other people.
I have no confidence at the moment, I want to tell you many stories, but I doubt my skills as a story teller.
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