Over the last few months there has been a story, no, more a plot to a story.
Allegedly there are only 37 conceivable plots in entirety that can be written. Therefore it is the words of the story that ultimately give flesh to the plot. Making it a living, breathing, hand full of mercury. Running helter skelter from the mind then the heart, then the page, and finally through you.
The major problem is other people have successfully penned tales utilising the same plot. Narrative device the variant.
The moral dilemma is the plot I have just realised stem through narrative, yet directly from the heart, and to a far lesser extent, the mind.
Why such a dilemma is clawing my heart and soul? This is specifically due to narrative I have created being so close to reality that the edges between fiction and non, are beginning to blur. Unintentionally, I have created for myself such heart wrenching sorrow, that I actually wept.
Do I continue on this soul destroying journey, one that has stretched my heart to the point of irretrievable hurt and misery? Or do I continue in the vague hope that due to the emotion behind the tale, I could build and turn my yarn into something that would be entertain a great many people, being a piece you, the reader, may actually enjoy? Enticing thought and emotion as you digest all put before you
I will elaborate on the plot to you all. When? Possibly soon? Maybe later? But I will nonetheless.
The opinion of you, my beloved reader, is greatly needed, as cryptic as the spiel I have thrust upon you is.
Click on the Kerouac quote.