Great American Novel

For years, decades, I've contemplated something better than what I write. I've read Twain and his poetic phrases. I've read Poe and tried to mimic his darkness. I've read Pratchet and laughed at his genius. But what I really want to do is write; write something worth reading. I doubt I have it within me. And doubt is a killer.

I have dreamed of rainbow spiderwebs and vampire mists which ensnare my ideas and drain my thoughts until there is nothing left. I ponder their value. I contemplate their worth. Yet, I still produce ideas which inspire. I still see stories galore. I still jot down these tidbits of thoughts. All of them, turn my mind toward what I could do; write the next Great American Novel.

One such tidbit:

Trapped in the corner of his mind, Captain Jenkins pondered the futility of the future. He thought to step out of the darkness of his consciousness, take a tepid stride towards freedom, but the possibility of death held him still. He was opposed to death. He was afraid of the vast emptiness which signaled the end of life because only fools embraced it. He was not a fool, nor was he reckless in his actions. But for him, the future held any number of questions. His questions hinged on the fact that the future was not set in stone, at least as far as he could grasp it. This belief went against the current trend of society. It brandished him a rebel. He disliked the label, but it fit him well. He was different. He was part of a dying breed. Only that realization kept him from killing himself. He had to survive. He had to forge on. He had to prove his worth. He had to…had to discover the truth.