There is a robin egg blue Ford pickup truck on my commute that has captured my imagination.
Each morning, I watch the driver going in the opposite direction.
He has put-on weight.
He always has a smile on his round face.
His truck is a reminder of the story I am writing.
The real reward for a fiction writer is to see reality differently. The rabbits follow me. I walk down the dirt road and they come closer.
They know I’m a magician with a wit more cunning than the King of the Leprechauns.
There are ordinary rabbits, and then, the magical variety.
I put myself into my stories, in the same way that painters put themselves into their paintings.
A painting is not a picture. There’s a soul there—or at least, I hope so.
Some primitive people believe that the camera will steal their soul, and
I am inclined to believe them.
I look-at Instagram selfies, and the eyes of those women are vacant.
In a world filled with Mundane Gray existence, I prefer to add color.
We are all writing our stories, regardless if we realize it or not.
So, why not
become a really good fiction writer?
It might just improve your life.
One thought on “On Being a “Really Good” Fiction Writer”