I Want it Now!

I want a feast! I want a bean feast!

Your writing is very good, James Finn, particularly the twin opuses you penned today.

What’s more, I think it’s very likely you know that.

Of course, a little validation never hurts, so consider your ticket punched. Your dance card will fill and your tip-jar too; perhaps your cup will one day runneth over.

I hope so for you. I have an inkling that this is a much better place with higher quality writers and much more sophisticated readers.

See James . . . this guy was an unknown while he walked the Earth but I don’t even need to caption with his name because over a hundred and fifty years later, you recognize his face. Strangely enough now, my footnote (below) blends into the ideas expressed in this guy’s classic poem, Annabelle Lee.

Art and time develop quite independently of one-another. Consider Vincent Van Gogh and Edgar Alan Poe, both unknowns in their own time but household names today.

I don’t think you’ll need to wait until they carry you out feet-first or sprinkle your ashes back in that lovely garden you’ve been writing a lot about lately.

( btw, I think that garden’s a pretty good suggestion if you don’t have a great spot already chosen. Me, I think I’d prefer to go green. *see note below)

On the other hand, Next Thursday might be a bit too soon to expect your former Quora-level of readership.

De Sade here thought that little line was especially good.

You know what’s in your wheel-house — keep writing about those things you’re passionate about and continue to fling open the doors of your raw emotion.

If you write it, they will come.

Unless, that is, you’re writing pornography.

Then, the spelling changes slightly.

Speaking of bad timing, I churned away yesterday on my little opposition piece against Valentine’s Day lemmings, uncharacteristically oblivious to the News of the World.

What a rotten day to start a piece with an allusion to Al Capone’s St. Valentine’s day massacre.

Somehow, I’m writing today with a macabre blend of tragedy and jocularity. Who knew?

“Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the theater?”

*Although an understandably dark topic, I must mention Paul Monette’s book, Last Watch of the Night. His essay, “3275” was the first piece of writing I’d read that left me weeping. I’ll wager you’ve already read it.

PS. I hope you’ll check out my little hyperlinks and such . . . I try hard to make them worthwhile.

Pps. Keep up the good work!