Spud ~ Thursday, 16 August 2018

As I have come to realize nobody cares a lick about writing in verse or prose unless it takes them out of their own thoughts to see the world as they could not imagine it themselves without the gifted eyes of the author. Even if they do not exist as real people but as figments to imagine in an armchair in a study, a coffeeshop, a library doing research to change our minds for us as we cannot decide to flip the switch to clear our minds of cluttered thoughts and processes. I, myself, am not as of yet a real writer, entertaining the masses with brilliant ideas, scenarios, plots, characters, and dialogue. I am only a failed wordsmith, never published aside from 'zines, few ever read or take the time to let me know that they enjoy something other than the movies, television, and videos, that my efforts are not in vain, writing as if potatoes had eyes to read with, and the Irish as consumers of potatoes were the best read because they ate my gibberish with great relish, salt and butter. A writer writes and cannot help but put words down for someone else to hopefully one day enjoy.