What that says about me, my psyche and the bent of my imagination, I choose to ignore. (My psychiatrist has enough on his hands already.)
Yesterday, a day of minimal writing time thanks to an air conditioner in its death throes, I began chipping away at the tragedy-ridden subplot at the heart of the Six Brothers.
Like I said, it was easy.
Rather ghoulish of me, I fear.
If writing was a waltz, the tearjerker and I would be flawless dance partners.
All the little details that wring heartbreaking sorrow from a reader fly off my fingertips with troublesome ease.
I could write one heck of a “Love Story”-esque novel… If I really wanted to… which I don’t.
I abhor reading tearjerkers. My emotions are tattered enough with my every day, screwed up life that I really don’t need to send the old heart-strings through a paper shredder just for jollies.
Oh well. I guess I don’t really have to read what I write.
The blind tragedian, that’s me.