Somewhere, there is a writer who can write a better short story than Peter Taylor. She can craft sentences that make you weep from the sheer compactness of the prose.
Instead, she will go to college, study marketing under the illusion that writing something successfully is better than failing at writing something great, will have a semi-successful corporate career and one day, die.
Her grandchildren will come across her computer files, filled with scenes that never got fleshed out. They will marvel over her lyrical talent, and muse how Grandma could have been a famous writer “if only things had been different”.
Things are never different. Space is never given – space is only taken. Things don’t change – we change.
Thoreau said that most of us lead lives of quiet desperation. I would say that is because most of us die with our music still in us.
What if I started a food kitchen in the front yard of your residence… how would your neighbors like that?
I am, quite frankly, confused. If you want to email me about something, use the contact form, please.