I’ve struggled over the last couple of years with a growing urge to write a purely fictional piece of prose. I have failed to get very far. At least three major attempts ended up as poems. I am serious. How that happened I have no idea, but there they are. Fictional attempts, ok, I mean attempts at fiction somehow insisted on rhyming and using a weird meter. Don’t believe me? Here is proof:
Two by Two was supposed to be a detective story. If you read it very hard the story will come to you at last. By far the hardest thing is to be a story and not to rhyme. ( Digression Alert #1: I wonder what will happen if Led Zep lose the plagiarism case on this one? The end of rock civilization…. the imagination boggles. )
Goodbye? was a love story that went horribly wrong and ended up as an ode to loneliness. There is no explanation I can provide, or even an excuse for inflicting this on you.
Impending Autumn is yet another romance gone wrong. Though in this case it is a bit prosy and you have to search for the rhymes. (They are there…. they sneaked in somehow).
“There’s something funny going on, he said, I can just feel it in the air.” – Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts by B. Dylan.
Exactly what strange quirk in my head stops me from putting a story together, I know not. Now that I’m back from my holiday and therefore unemployed, I intend to psychoanalyze myself to find out. This will entail, naturally, much lying around on couches and talking to oneself, but I can handle that quite easily. Maybe, I’ll need to use some math using Decomposition Methods. (Digression Alert #2: Did you hear about the constipated mathematician whose ink had run dry? The poor fellow had to work it out with a pencil.)
I shall let you know how it goes. Do NOT be surprised if an actual piece of fictional prose should arrive on this here blog in the near future.
You will come over to read it won’t you? Please?