Would That I Might

For a long while now I have only been writing a few poems a day, and it has been fine.  I don't think it has hurt my work, in and of itself, though, of course, a reduction in the amount I am writing does involve some kind of reduction.  I mean, I know that writing ten poems, it is more likely one will be great, but I also think that those odds are not static, but depend on the number of poems as well.  I may be writing less and getting a higher percentage of poems that are of a certain quality, or it might not be that way at all.  I know there have been studies that suggest that quantity does more for an artists output than a focus on quality, but it is a complicated matter.  The reasons for my writing so much in the past, and the reasons I have reduced the output as well, were not so much motivated by a desire to make the work better through sheer volume, though I think a part of me did hold on to that concept in some ways.  It began as a way to just get myself writing again, and

Take The Long Walk Today, not the one you take most days, some other one that goes out beyond the small circle paced on other afternoons.  No, today, go another way, keep on past where you turn when you would  any other day, because today is special, is a day to make special, is not a day to make the same as the others: you have had those days, have taken those walks. It is time, now, you know already. Even a few new steps: what might be just there in that place a foot beyond where you have been, where you have stayed.

One of my natural inclinations as a poet is towards cleverness.  This can be a strength, and there are many poets who utilize this kind of humorous approach, but I also realize that, for me, it can become a way to hide.  It is easy to go towards a clever response instead of one that is more sincere, which may be more revealing or risky.  It is a natural instinct, I suppose, but it is also something I need to move beyond.  I know that I will always have those elements in my work, but I need to learn ways of using those tools in new ways, not to cover up where I am uncomfortable being straightforward. 

Lessons I hope it will begin soon, that you will come as we have spoken to begin, to show me. I think so much, already, think of what can be, but it is all locked inside without an exit, and I wish I did not need this help, that I were enough, that alone I could find my way, instead of this reliance on others, but maybe you can show me enough for me to find freedom, to make my way.  I know: I have thought this before.

 I was able, at last, to get my first vaccine today.  It was not a matter of my delaying this necessity intentionally or selfishly, but a combination of practical issues.  First, I have had very serious reactions to vaccines in the past, and it was necessary for me to get clearance from an allergist before I could be certain it would be safe.  Having had life threatening reactions to flu vaccinations as a child, and being warned to stay away from that particular inoculation for life, it was a serious concern.  Fortunately, I was cleared, and able to sign up for my dosage.  I had sent in a request earlier, even though I knew I might have to delay.  At the time, I was merely getting on the list for when my age group was eligible, not signing up for an actual appointment, and by the time I was eligible, I had been to the doctor, but I never was called to schedule my appointment.  I received a call a bit before I was eligible, an automated message asking if I still needed the vaccine.  I s

The Responsible Party You created this situation, made certain it came to be, blocked other paths, sullied all options besides those you chose were right, and now you say the position you forced me into excuses your attitude, makes it reasonable to keep me in the dark. You are right, though, it is my fault for trusting you this much, this long.

Metaphor is, of course, an essential aspect of poetry, but, at root, it is not a complex idea.  Indeed, at root it is just drawing attention to a similarity, or, if I am bit less specific, a comparison.  Thomas Lux often said that he could teach every skill of poetry, except metaphor, that it was the inherent ability that needed to exist in order to be a poet.  To my mind, this is a truth, but not, I think, in the way it was intended.  Rather, I think the capacity for seeing the qualities of elements in our world as they repeat is an essential part of thought, and that that the lens of experiences paints what details we notice, what comparisons come to one person and not another.  Each of us has a unique capacity for metaphor, I think, a perspective upon which a personal poetics might be built.

I Reached Out but it may have been wrong, or may have been done wrong or in the wrong direction, and it may be wrong even to have reached, to always reach. I should know other ways, must take my own steps not just stand here finding what I can grasp or what is dropped at my feet.

 I am working to be more open and direct in my poetry.  It is hard for me, and I am often scared to just come out and say things, though it is hard for me to even describe what I mean, as I am often quite open and blunt with expressing opinions.  It is frustrating, as I often feel I don't have the ability to say this or that, but I know, when I look back or think on it, that I was hiding.  I know that what I am doing now is not without personal content or risk, it is real, but I also know there is more that lies deeper down, and I am struggling to get there.  I need to risk on ways that are not easy for me, but I believe it is what I must do in order to go deeper with my writing.

You Ask Me, How Did This Happen before I even know what it is that has occurred.  A snake is dead, the loop of its belly trapped between garage door panels, head and tail hanging, the snake two limp threads running out the crack, dark, thick laces, and you ask me how? How is it this is what happened? Such a strange thing, such an odd way for anyone to die.

I am sitting outside tonight and it is rather quiet.  It is late, and I am not sure what to write about, but I am enjoying the evening itself.  The air is cool, and I do not hear many cars passing by on the main road that runs parallel to the street I where I live.  I wish I took more time just to enjoy the night, but I am so often more focused on my work.  I must remember that much of my work is about noticing the world, is a product of moments sitting with the world.

I Need Help a bit of advice, some support and guidance, just a bit of help in dealing with things, with life, with my life as it is now,  and I want to ask, but who do I turn to? Those I once trusted have made certain things would be this way.

I am working to revise some of my earlier chapbook manuscripts, in order to bring them up to the level of the more recent work.  It is more a matter of how the pieces fit together than anything, involving small but directed revisions that focus on highlighting the connections between the individual poems.  I believe that I can get these chapbooks to work in the ways that my latest manuscript does.  That last one has received positive comments from editors, even if they did reject it.  I feel that if I can demonstrate a similar caliber of work with other collections, that might garner a higher degree of attention and interest.  Even more, it is a matter of improving my work and practicing important aspects of the craft, though it would be nice to feel I was making progress in a manner that would directly help me advance in my professional goals.

You Swore to Protect Us That promise seems a thing of importance, that it was made matters: it must be kept. But, I do not think you understand what it was you promised when you offered your protection, already I know  you have brought this about, have given council without consideration. You never sought to understand, even when you heard there was a rift, a disagreement your council was to take action without care for my feelings, for the impact on me. Perhaps, you thought it would not conflict with what you told me, with the promise you say you once gave, you may even believe you are fulfilling it, but I do not feel safe at all, I do not even trust you to know any longer what it is that must be protected.

Freesia and I spoke today, focusing mostly on the question of what to do in order to make some real progress.  I need to keep sending out work, of course, but at this point, it seems necessary to consider what is the real problem I'm encountering.  While I can recognize that any individual editor might not connect with my work, at this point I have well over a hundred rejections, including repeated examples of work I have shown to various poetic mentors with assurance that it was work editors would be seeking.  To suggest, at this point, that it is just a matter of luck, is not an intelligent perspective, the trend has gone too long.  I need to determine what it is that I am doing wrong, though I am not certain how to approach that question.  I am hoping that Freesia's input might provide some new options.

The Antagonist Before anything happened, I had made the agreement. It was not with you, it was not your agreement even if you did not agree: you were no party to it, and you have said before you do not get involved, do not take sides. When you heard, though, when you knew  what we had agreed, what I had asked for, the consideration I sought from my brother, that was not acceptable to you.  It did not matter that we had spoken, that you were not involved: you knew it was a tender subject, and you could not let it be, had to poke at it, and now you say to me it is too late and cannot change, but you are my mother and I must just let it go because otherwise I am choosing to cause you pain.

A great many things have changed in my life over the past few years, some of which I had not anticipated I would ever have to face.  In some ways, I feel cut off from things that felt definitive for my identity and I am working to recover from this.  Beyond this, I have been dealing with a number of other circumstances, some of which I have mentioned here, in varying details.  The truth is that I am afraid.  I do not know what to do to make things better, indeed, all the things that I can imagine to improve things are outside my power at present, and even attempting to get help has only proved frustrating, in a way that makes my efforts feel more fruitless.  I know that much of this has to be an illusion, that I can't really be doomed in the way I feel, but knowing this does not change my experience.  I need to find a way forward.

A Truth I Can See Now So much is unclear, no direction seems to go forward, though I cannot know, have been turned about without any choice and no compass of my own, but I do know that you are here, that it is as much for you, every stride is for us both, and I know I can see you. Why have I not chosen before that I will always follow a path that carries you forward? When I am lost, why have I not always chosen you?

 Yesterday, I walked in on Melissa standing before the television sobbing at the defense attorneys closing statements in the Chauvin trial.  It hurt her so to hear what they were saying, the twisting of events and logic to defend the indefensible.  Today, of course, it was revealed that the jurors saw through those attempts and found Chauvin guilty on all counts.  That is nothing, though.  It is necessary, of course, and good to see justice done, but the clear truth is that we have elements in society who want to see the status quo, specifically in terms of the way minorities and particularly black individuals are treated by our justice system, continue.  The desire to not reform our systems, the dismissal of the potential for institutional Nissan, all of it is no accident, and the Chauvin verdict cannot be seen as a true victory.  It is only victory if their is true progress, if not it was a symbolic gesture to soothe and prevent the need for real change.

Verdict There is good news: one who did bad will be punished. Aren't you so glad? Your heart must glow knowing this, yes, it is so wonderful, though more continues, even today there is a girl shot by the police (I hear she called them) in Columbus, Ohio, it should be enough that one time there was punishment, though, even then it was too late, did not save anyone or restore what was taken. It is always too late, but do not think about that, that is just how it is, or do you expect real change, the kind that might matter, the kind that might mean these things stop happening. No, just rejoice that on this day, this one time, there was justice. Yes.  That is enough justice, it must be enough. It is all they are prepared to allow and more than most will tolerate.

 I need to spend some time focusing on the full length collection.  It is, in some ways, a flight of fancy, considering I have had such difficulties even publishing individual poems, but it is also an important effort, and I think I might have a capacity for work at the scale of a book, a way of considering the interweaving of the poems together that might give my manuscripts an edge my poems do not have on their own.  Maybe that is just wishful thinking, but I also recognize that creating a collection is its own skill, and whatever my capacity for it, it is necessary to practice.   

 I Saw My Father's Death I do not know if he was there, in the predawn hospital: he had been asleep so long, a body, but only that, unmoving flesh, even his breath given over to machines, his face buried behind tubing. I do not think that breathing stopped. He was dead, but I think there was still breathing.

I found that a post I wrote a few nights ago was never posted.  I thought I had told the computer to publish it, but it seems that the command was not received, so it did not get posted until I noticed and fixed the error tonight.  I wonder how many times I have done this and if their are other pieces sitting in the electronic ether, pieces I think I have put online already, but which are still waiting for a final command before they can be seen by anyone but me. I am not sure if this is a problem for most people who post content, and it may well be it is fairly common, but I can imagine it is another of many small examples of things that I find more difficult as a result of my dyslexia.  The visual nature of online interfaces, and of our systems in general, is difficult for me.  I find using a device to move a cursor on the screen to be very frustrating and difficult, as it requires a degree of coordination between a movement in one place with visual input in a completely separate loc

There Are Many Paths from Here Some are quite nice, many are splendid: cool breezes smelling sweet with subtle tones of all those flowers (rose, lavender, dandelion, lilac) passed along the way to you, if you are along those paths, but others exist, too, not so nice, not easy, steep, cruel paths with nothing to see, with heat and unkind damp. Any destination might be reached along either kind, and their may be many that end in the same clearing, though some must go other ways, and it is not possible to know the end just from the condition, from the arduous nature of the journey required. No, you cannot pick a path to get to any specific place, must follow one to discover where it leads, and you cannot know even the journey ahead, if what kind of path you have chosen, but, of course, you cannot stay here.

In looking at advice on rejections, the thing that is most common to hear is some variant on "don't let it get to you," and there is certainly truth to the idea that everyone faces rejection (and not only in writing and the arts), but it is also a bit difficult to see this as actual advice.  For one thing, it offers no actual help on how to achieve not caring.  It offers an outcome, but is rarely ever presented with a real, workable concept of how to accept these results, except, perhaps, on an individual level.  Beyond this, and more significantly, it is a dodge of the real question, as anyone asking about rejection is not looking to be told about the process of receiving rejections, but what steps can be taken to change that outcome.  It is a bit like going to a guidance councilor for advice on getting into college and being told what to expect in your rejection letters, instead of being provided insight on how to submit a successful application.  It is not useful in a

I am finding it hard to focus.  I am still writing each day, of course, but have been less successful in my efforts for putting together the new collection, and have been giving less thought to the new novel.  The sense of being stuck in a situation I am powerless to change, despite my efforts, is draining me, and I am not certain what to do about it.  I just keep spinning around and getting nowhere, and it is taking a real toll on me.

The Sky Tonight I see no stars, though it is clear, unclouded, all I see is emptiness, until I am looking only from the periphery, when I see without looking there is a single star, so dim, but I can see it so long as I am not looking where I know it is.

The Fire Still Burns cuts its way across the land, but those who set it want only to be forgiven, they know it is burning, they see the devestation, but what can they do, now? The fire was set already, so much is destroyed. It cannot be expected they will take action. What good would action be? It will not change what has happened. You cannot expect them to stop the fire, that is not realistic, not when it is burning so, when it is beyond control. No, they apologized. What more can they do besides say they are sorry it ever started, that they are watching with great sadness.

 I am going to keep this short, again.  The stressful day I expected unfolded, and I am feeling fraught once more.  A lot of it was strange and emotionally taxing, but I am here.  I got through my work, as well, and that feels like an accomplishment of merit on such days.

Persona I will not tell you what I thought to say, what I considered first. I was about to, was prepared to tell you, but it was honest. The truth slips out if you are not careful.

 I am feeling very stressed and emotionally drained right now.  Much of this is personal stuff that I don't want to discuss here, beyond saying that I am feeling very low.  This also adds to my feelings about the stagnation I am finding with my publishing efforts and profession progress in general.  I feel that a shift in terms of my writing career would also be helpful in terms of creating other changes in my life, not because of any true material change, but because of the shift it would represent for me in my own experience.   The sense of being stuck I have spoken of is not only about my sense that I cannot get anywhere with my writing, but also is reflected in other aspects of my life, and I have found that my efforts at making a shift meets the same kind of obstacles, where my actions are not enough to cause any change.  I know I need to do something, to alter things, but I feel powerless, and all my efforts seem to only be evidence of the extent of that futility.  It is not

Now That I Am Ready What is within has risen, has reached the surface so it may be accessed. It has taken years, an inner distillation, percolation, filtration of what was waiting, what had been but was not ready, and now: it is ripe, can be accessed, is here, ready, at last, but it is so long, too long to continue from where I was, and I know only the ancient path that is now barred.

 I am going to keep this short tonight, as I am exhausted.  I spent much of the day handling an emergency with my mother's car that I did not need to be involved in, but I am glad I was able to help out.  I am also glad that, for whatever reason, I decided, this morning, to do some of my work early, meaning that I had less to do tonight.  Hoping that will keep me inspired to write tomorrow morning.

A Defined Role It is so clear, even the strangers know, will see it, will respond. The roles are clear, and I do not want to be the one who does not matter, who is excluded, but you both do it without knowing, do it all the time, and now, it is not only you, it is others Once, I believed it too.

 I received more rejections today, so I am still feeling rather the same as last night.  I am attempting to think of the practical actions I can take, to find a positive action I can take.  I have already expressed my frustration and am sick of it.  I know the criteria that matter to me, in terms of what I want to achieve, the goals I am seeking to reach.  I know that it would not be enough for me to just self-publish my work, not only because I do not feel I would be capable of doing that in a fruitful way, but also because I know the audience I want to court, and I do not believe that self-pyblishing has reached a point of maturity where I could achieve what I want within that arena.  Even were that not true, it is important for me to recognize and acknowledge the impact of my dyslexia and I have looked into the things necessary for success in a self- publishing model, many of which would tax areas in which I have severe deficits.  In a similar way, I have found it difficult to inter

Always, I Meet An Obstacle, Even when others know it is simple, is not possible, it is not so for me, some way it goes wrong, the path has cracks and they were never there before, will be gone when I am, will be fixed right away. It is just my bad luck to be the one here now, so what does it matter if no one else is to be affected?

I am so sick of the sense that I have been working hard but not making any progress.  I am not satisfied with the knowledge that I am writing, or the awareness that my work is changing and growing, that I am learning and developing as an artist.  All that is important, and necessary, but I am not really sure how to even believe in my work on that level when it does not provoke any response but more rejection.  I believe the work to be good, of course, and trust those who support my efforts, but it is important to me that I am able to progress professionally and not only artistically.  In part, I am realizing that the situation I am in is very limiting in terms of my writing itself.  This piece is an example of that, of the way.I am continuously stuck considering the same mental patterns in a way that does not help me.  To be stuck is to be within a singular paradigm, and I long to write work that is different, work I feel I cannot even conceive of within my current situation.  Beyond t

A Bit of Quiet has broken off from the night to curl itself  into a small ball beside my chair, close enough  I feel its warmth. It is a kind quiet, at least now. If I move fast, starle it, it may reply with claw or fang.

 I spent a fair amount of time today thinking about the new novel, and I am coming to understand some of it.  Their are elements that I can see need to work together, and a part of the story is going to involve a tension between the writer and the characters, or, perhaps, the fiction itself.  I do not yet know how that is to work, exactly, but it is related to a missing person, one who has vanished from the book, as far as the characters are concerned.  I think I could offer more of an explanation, but it feels rather tenuous at present, and I need to keep the tension, not giving away too much before it is written.  It is coming together, though, and I am starting to get excited about the possibility of starting work on it soon.

Going On I believe it can be different, but what can I do to make change? I know it is not enough for me to do  what I can do, I am not enough, am only me, but still, I cannot expect better if I will do nothing, even if no one else will, it is no reason to stop my effort to do better, to make things better as much, as little, as I can.

I am getting close to having a real handle on the ideas for this novel, but it is difficult to explain.  I have come to realize that I need to make my presence, as the writer telling the story, has to be a conceit within the book.  In a sense, it has to begin with a breaking of the fourth wall, with the writer stepping out to speak to the reader in a candid, direct way, making an earnest request of the reader.  I think that authorial presence will also allow many of the other concepts I am playing with to be integrated in a way that is more coherent.  I still have a great deal to consider, but I have a much clearer sense of it.  At some point soon, I am sure I will be ready to commit to writing it, but there are a number of things I must clarify first.

It Is Not The Same Any Longer So much seems impossible now that once was assured, things I relied upon, and now: what am I to want when I know what I wanted once is not to be, is impossible now.  Things have changed too much, but I am still as I was, am still driven towards what only existed in another future that only shares my past.

 I have another meeting with Freesia tomorrow, so I am thinking about the poetry manuscript quite a bit.  There is a lot of work to be done for it, and I am not yet at the point where it has come together into a clear vision, but I know that it is a process, and I am working my way through it.  I think the next step is going to be starting to find ways to put the poems into groups.  I think of the manuscript as being built from sets of poems, and that these sets then interconnect with the rest of the book.  The poems in these groupings need to be connected in ways that the reader will notice, and making that work will require revision and shaping, but that all has to be in service of something already in the poems, something that will unite them in my thinking, and those connections between the poems are what makes the thematic structure and through-line of the book.  At least, that is the general idea.  Right now, there are quite a few poems that are ready to be part of this book, but

Finding Out The physicists are excited they may be wrong again, though the caliber of their certainty that they are wrong is not enough yet to be fully confident, they need to test again to be sure about being wrong, but they think it may be that they are wrong and are already considering the wonders to be found in thinking through what will be found out through one miniscule error in the theory they rely upon, the one that has been right, has predicted everything right up until now.

There are certain aspects of metanarrative approaches which I think are not often explored in fiction.  It is clear, when one looks at the work of early twentieth century writers who were starting to explore these concepts, a large part of the intent was about breaking down the illusions and artiface of art.  A theatrical piece breaking the fourth wall was intended as a reminder to the audience watching that they are watching theater.  In contrast, much of the metafiction I find does not appear to be working within that framework.  Often, it feels that the intent is more about implying a deeper reality to the work, a sense that it exists in some other reality.  This is an interesting area for exploration, of course, and I cannot deny that I am interested in this aspect as well, but, I think it is possible to do something more by moving beyond the reliance on illusion, to present something meaningful that is known to be unreal, that exists on its own reams as an imagined object of signi

Memento Mori Time keeps moving and I know everything is impermanent, will end when the time comes, even if the length from now to then is not knowable until it has passed. I know it, and I want to do what I can within those bounds, want to make better now, because tomorrow is always one less tomorrow, but now can still be forever, if it is always now, if now is when we do it.

 I wish I had a way to break down some of the ideas that are developing around this new novel in a way that made more sense, but they are still quite jumbled.  I have been thinking about the formulation of a plot to develop the rest around and I have certain themes and concepts, but it is also still rather loose.  I know that the characters are involved in enacting some kind of ritual, and I am recognizing that the completion of that ritual is a point of transformation for the book, is when the illusion of story has to be removed.  I have a sense of this, but explaining it is not yet possible, and I am afraid to speak of it.  These things are delicate, and I can feel my own insecurities grow as I attempt to simplify it into an explanation.

You Want Me to Stop Being Hurt I know the past cannot change, and I can forgive, I can move forward, but it is not enough that what was done cannot change, that cannot be the reason I should forgive, not when all that was done, all that you want me to accept, to pardon, was done without any care for the harm caused, even though it was made clear, even though I pleaded.

 I have been thinking quite a bit about the novel I am conceptualizing, and I think I am beginning to get a handle on it, at least in terms of the larger aims of the work.  It is largely an exploration into the nature of story, looking at many ideas I have been discussing here, already.  In some sense, it is intended to deconstruct itself, to pull apart the elements of the story in a way that reveals them as artificial, but I hope to find a way of doing this that feels to be an expansion, not a destruction.  In part, this is related to my interest in metafiction, and, in particular, with the original intents of that approach.  I think many authors of fiction who play in this arena, do not understand the point of it, or, perhaps, they are just doing it for reasons that are alienated from the original intent of the technique.  In part, I want this piece to break the wall of the novel by stepping out of the work and explaining it, in the way that a Brecht play might include an explanation

A Dangerous Denial It is clear you will not accept what happened, will not acknowledge that it is true.  You were there: you saw it, but you tell me it is not true, tell me I am exaggerating, that the car did not hit me, that it was just my arms pushing against it, that he did not hit me, I was not hurt.  It is not so, it did not happen, you will not allow it to be what happened, and what can I do: the bruises, the one's  along my torso,  they are gone now, but I should not need them when you saw it.  No, it is worse.  How can I trust you when it is clear you choose  that any harm to me is only in my head?

 I am stretching to be more revealing in my poetry, to be more straightforward.  It is a struggle, at times, since I am often inclined towards a certain cleverness, and have a habit of aloofness in my work.  I am not certain where this came from, to be honest, or why it is so present in my work, and I do not think it is a bad thing, but, I do believe I need to learn to do things that create more space for connection.  I need to give the reader a chance to get inside the poem, at times.  I want to let the work be more vulnerable sense, to provide a space in it for intimacy and connection, and I know that some of my natural tendencies need to be considered in that context.  I think it is possible to do what I am seeking within the framework of my voice, but it is necessary to discover a path, and that may require first becoming more comfortable within this new register before I can integrate it more fully with other, more developed, aspects of my craft.

There Are Clouds All About Tonight but none are right above, they are only a border surrounding the great dark hole that spans the sky when I look straight up, and I know how absurd  it is to think it is something important, is anything to do with me, the oddness of the clouds being only on the edges of the celestial sphere as observed from here, where I sit, but I think it anyway, wonder at it, ask why the clouds might choose to avoid watching over me tonight, and what it means that I still see no stars.

It is strange to consider how long I have been writing this journal, as I am wont to do when, as tonight, the entry count reaches another hundred.  It is a long time, and my life is quite different in many ways, but I am still working towards getting my writing career off the ground.  I have been writing, of course, and have a great deal to show for it in terms of output, and I believe in the work I have been doing.  I do believe things will change, but it is not always so easy to remain convinced.

Between Us It is not good for things remain disjointed.  I know: I too must change, must learn acceptance, but it is not enough. I am afraid if it is the same, if there is nothing else. I do not want this to be how it is, to let it remain, but, will you resist, are you always to be so closed?

Freesia and I had a meeting today, most of which was spent strategizing for sending out more submissions.  The main result of this was the decision to send out a large batch of submissions.  In the past, I have been conservative about simultaneously sending a poem to multiple places, especially as I do have so much work, but it seems important to spread the net even wider, and it is easier to send the same group of poems to a few places.  I am hoping that getting more work out will help, but I must admit, I am afraid it will only intensify my experience of rejection.  I know that is not fully rational, even given the rejections I have accumulated.  It is at least an attempt to do something that might make a change.  I just wish it weren't merely doing the same thing that hasn't worked yet, but more of it.

They Cannot Consider It Might Be So The parameters of the problem are assumed to be impossible. It must not be this way: some parameter is being misrepresented. They are always certain, answer as though it were simple, as though the solution is clear, will not believe it can be this way. They assume the problem is not the one I describe, that I am at fault. They never offer real answers.

 I have been continuing to consider the idea for this new novel(a word I am still not certain is quite right for what I have in mind).  I think there is a layer to it that I do not yet understand, which has to do with an intent for the telling of the story, with the role of the reader in relation to the piece.  I have a sense of the reader and writer as being figures of a sort within the work, not in a literal sense, but as forces that the characters are in relationship to.  It is a strange idea, but I am also only just getting a handle on it, and I am inclined towards odd ideas, at any rate.

 Bad Debater I have spoken too much and the hooks of each word are in my own mouth, how did you manage to gain hold of the other end?