Literary praise makes my day

I’d planned to just leave a comment on that last post, in the hope that the shadowy Jac would return, but then I really began to think about it. It’s quite the compliment, especially given my sick obsession for all that is literary. I have countless favorite authors…writers that really know how to pull you in whether you’re ready or not, that present such imaginative, striking portrayals, that create innovative art from a seemingly antiquated, mundane world. I could never emulate their style of writing or their visions, and I wouldn’t want to. Kundera would never have been so great were there twenty Czech expatriates spouting philosophy, existentialism and raw tales of amor intertwined so fluently so as to blur the ever-diminishing lines between what is and what should never be. Plath’s poetry wouldn’t have sparked the interest of critics had her novel not shed some light on the truth behind the vague, simple, easily understandable flip from sane to neurotic and suicidal. Anything avant-garde, in mass, depletes the creativity, the vision of inimitability.

So, in a roundabout way, what I’m attempting to say is, honestly, no, I've never considered writing as a profession. I wouldn’t want to add my clichéd tales and descriptions to publishers, only to fill bookstores or magazines with repetitive, literary works that could be purchased cheaper from a five and dime. If I ever decide to write it will only be because I feel I finally have something so unprocessed, so emotionally evocative and true, too unique to keep to myself any longer than necessary. As is, I've only recently realized what a cathartic process writing can be, though I’m not sure mine makes sense or strikes others the way it does me on some emotionally warped scale. I am flattered you find my writing to be what I could only hope it to be…it’s rather reassuring, stabilizing. Accolade I never have imagined possible. So thank you, and if I ever do decide to write, I'll credit you on my jacket copy.