Because I have gotten plenty of recent comments regarding my writing skills, and because I achieved a level of absolute boredom yesterday, I dusted off an old and forgotten manuscript and began to transcribe the document onto my computer, as the original disk for it has long-since disappeared. About halfway through the first sentence, though, I remembered why I had given up on the book. It is a fictional account of a man who spent his whole life in a coma and had a very vivid dream of another life halfway around the world, that turned out to be actually happening to another version of himself. Anyway, the reason I had given up on it is because I submitted it to my creative writing professor my fourth semester of college, and his comment was still scrawled in barely legible handwriting on the top of the first page. He basically pointed out that I had written what amounted to a book report, though the book had never been written, let alone read. I was hurt by his comment, because as we all know the truth hurts. However, yesterday as I sat in my chair staring at an almost blank word document, an idea began forming in my head, and I began to type. Before I knew it, I had several paragraphs. They are, of course, tentative at best and shall need to be edited and streamlined, and it in no way amounts to a completed novel, but my confidence was back. I have now promised myself to spend at least thirty minutes each day on this book. I have temporarily entitled it A Life Unlived, but perhaps I will think of a better title later. I intend to turn the thirteen pages that I already have on paper and the page and a half on my computer into a chapter novel. It is not the same as an autobiographical account of certain happenings in my own life, as was suggested by my sister, but it is a start, and even though (or perhaps because) the truth is stranger than fiction, I feel very strongly that fiction is much easier to write. With fiction, I need not worry about what might offend whom and why; I need not worry about getting any of my facts correct, as it is expected to be a bit fantastic; most of all, I need not worry about watering down my reality to suit the reader, because fiction is not about what is real, just about what could be real. Congress–What is reality? It’s a conspiracy, nothing but the impulse of our brain through actions of our senses.

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