My second novel, like the first, is an abomination of the English language—which explains why God created the Revision. Really, to call both of these lengthy slatherings of ink "novelistic" must be pushing the definition to its unnatural extreme. As with all of my drafts of anything, I can never settle upon a title. So, I always keep a running list. Below, then, is that list of working titles for my second effort at a novel... Clay Thumb on the World Unique Reek The Clatters The Sniggering Clatters Clay and the Sniggering Clatters: A Ridiculous Fable Pined For An Infectious Miasma of Lunacy The Broadloom The Humph Infernal Obliquity Tenacious Nougat Dangling from the Goop The Briefest of Gusts The Cusp of Fall Points of Tolerance Shag Bark Lane Mr. & Mrs. Clatter of 7 Shag Bark Lane Paint Yourself Ridiculous Crossing Thresholds Gravity's Tug A Pale Perplexion The Constant Swerve For the duration of my effort, I left the first line on the cover of the composition book
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The one who writes pathetically, thinks pathetically, lives pathetically. * *Note Of Clarification: The above sentence originated as the first in today's off-line, pen-and-paper journal entry. It was an assessment of the last pen-and-paper journal entry, written a fortnight ago. The sentence above, I would hazard to guess, is certainly not applicable to you.
At some point—if not for pellucidity's sake then for productivity's sake—you must limit your Influences. While it provides the clay and shapes the molding of the clay, the Influence is, nevertheless, the Constant Invader. Thus: Command (and limit) the Influence, and there is nothing you cannot command (or limit). Hence: Oedipus Rex, Hamlet, Of Mice and Men, Casablanca, Waiting for Godot, Oleanna, Star Wars, Reservoir Dogs, Toy Story, etc... Without set boundaries and limitations—read, for example: gravity and atmosphere—there would be only infinite chaos, and thus, no discernable life. Or not. * * * Hm: "... shapes the molding..." A bit redundant, eh? Perhaps: ".... directs / governs / dragoons the molding..." would be more apt?
What if, The Wanting is all I want? The Wanting, after all, is Familiar. Indeed, The Wanting is (seemingly) all I ever get. (Which is not entirely true.) (Indeed, it would be a slight lie.) Indeed, I get plenty of what I do not Want. (But don't we all?) But, what if I really do Want exactly what I get— and yet, somehow, think , somehow, believe , that what I get is what I do not really Want?