Did Steinbeck write me into some story of his? It's very like him, to endeavor into too many characters. He's got a hand in ten different ink jars, writing character after character into this twisted tale. No one is the hero, we're all villains stepping over the carnage each other have wreaked. Who comes out smelling like less than shit, none. Only the story itself as it scrawls off into different bedrooms of other lovers.
We're left to find solace in some artistic purpose, hope we're making a brilliant page turner. If I can believe this will be a story like so many I have read, curled up with and fallen into home with, maybe it will make it all easier and sweeter.
You can't write me as the antagonist and protagonist, as the narrator and the foil. Am I the author's surrogate or Checkhov's gun planted to fire ten years down the road? It's really too much to ask for a character given life by your hand to span so many stories.
I'm holding ellipses and run on sentences together with semi colons here; I'm running out of adverbs to make this shit look pretty. The clock's been ticking in the belly of the crocodile for years, you can cut it out and let me see the his grin already. Is this a metamorphosis? A tragedy, fire side poet's failure, a fucking satire? Pick your God damned literary genre, plot, and get a better editor.
You're confused. You must be. You forgot the conjunction, the and, the but, the however. You put a period there and I know you must have meant a comma.
I know that tomorrow I'll drink coffee and eat waffles and believe that hope exists in your eyes, while Wolfe and I take a train far away from here toward the Hudson. But tonight I have no appetite and Baudelaire dragged me into his parisian stupor.
All I'm saying is, I could be a good writer, too.
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