I’ve only been working on the novel a few days, but already I’m possessed. The energy and passion are back with me like they were all those years ago. All doubt is removed. No, not just removed, but obliterated. I feel as though I can walk through walls, as if the boundaries that were once in place have been torn down. The rules don’t apply to me anymore; I do as I please. And this novel of mine, I want its words to burn the eyes of all those who read it. I want them to become your everything. The drug you can’t deny- an addiction that will always win. I’ll be your lover. The figure at the foot of the bed that comes for you in the dead of night. Every time you read my words, my lips will be on your neck and my hand beneath your dress. And you’ll let me take everything, over and over again. I’ll break you, and I’ll shame you. Your belief in my words will turn you delirious. They’ll infect you like poison. The madness I speak of, pumping through your veins making your heart beat so fast it will yearn to explode.
I don’t want appreciation. Warm applause means zero. I want complete devotion. I want you to surrender everything to me. Mind, body, and soul. And you will, I know you will. Because now I believe again, the power of my words burns bright. They pulsate. Stark and truthful, their beauty cutting through banality and tedium like a knife through flesh. I’ve always known the potential was there, but for so long it was never embraced. My conviction lacking. My dreams reduced to wishful thinking, fanciful and best left forgotten. But now they whisper to me all through the day, and sometime soon, I’ll share them with you and make you love me more than anything. The journey has been hard, and it’s been so lonely. The least I ask for in return then is for you to give me your word that you’ll always be mine. By day, I’m just an average guy. I pass the time earning next to nothing in a dead-end job. My demeanor is calm. I am passive in appearance. So gentle and subdued. But when I write, I change. Everything changes.
My dream isn’t to retire; it’s to write myself into the hearts and minds of millions. People will say I’m crazy. They’ll say I’m living in a fantasy world. But now I believe again, nothing will stop me from getting what I want. It’ll take time, and there will be days when it’ll seem as if it’s just too much to ask for. But I’ll never give up. Too much blood, sweat, and tears have gone into this. Too much denial, and not enough willpower. Writing is what I live for, that much is clear now. It can’t be ignored. In the future, I’ll have a lover in every town and city in the land. Wherever you are, my words will seduce and leave you so desperate for more. When you read the secrets I have to tell, the intimacy between us will be like nothing you’ve ever felt before, and like nothing you’ll ever feel again. We’ll gaze into each others eyes as if in the throes of climax, and everything else will become meaningless as you dissolve into my mania. One day, this will all become true. My words will become your religion. They’ll offer faith the likes of which you’ve never experienced. It’s written in the dead stars and engraved into the hearts of all those who’ll belong to me. Madness, passion, belief, and sex. Smeared across your wanting, blood-red lips.
Categories: On Writing