26 April 2012


HT's a writer, a real writer to me, as in, author. She’s published a thriller/mystery book. Mine is not a backhanded compliment; I know it might sound like one; it’s not. A writer has kicked it up a notch if a book is produced and published; it’s difficult, real labor, and it’s competitive; it’s major-league. SweetWilliamNow's a sorta writer. I like it. I have fun. Who cares?
HT gave one of my posts a comment. Comments are a fun validation, as in someone notices; so I read her blog; I’m cheap and easy. Anyway, I was reading a post; it’s good. I hear her heart. I commented; dashed it off. I hope for a response, but it’s not like I really expect one; it’s the Internet; she could be a shape-shifter, or something, a data-miner. Whatever. But I felt badly because I could’ve said more. I was hooked. HT’s post touched where I’ve experience. I poured my wisdom out. I wanted to be helpful.
Nights later I woke up and I’m layin’ there thinking. The post was a fiction. She made it up. Oh my God! She’s playing; that’s what writers do; like practicing scales. I poured my heart out to a fiction. Sweet!

No comments:

Post a Comment