I have written SIX books since December 12, 2022. The last of these was finished on April 5, 2024. I illustrated their covers and created their title fonts in the meantime. 212,137 words worth of story, excluding headings and title pages… in 480 days.
What I finished is not all I wrote. What I illustrated is not everything I rendered.
My creativity is since childhood. Drawings and daydreams became books and covers. I did what I did from the beginning, and with no thought of fame or fortune. I always shared my work, from the beginning. There was never a point to create to keep it a secret.
I am glad when people appreciate my work. I am disappointed when they do not. My efforts were never for praise, however. I sublimate my thoughts and feelings into product. People can understand what I cannot explain if they experience what I mean in context. The art and fiction provides context.
I have perfect self-esteem. I do not mean supreme confidence. Pride is an imperfection that corrupts thoughts and feelings. I appreciate my qualities without embellishing them. I acknowledge my failings without excusing them.
My books are adventurous, violent, sexual and weird. Their covers are likewise. The characters are the stories. Their dialog is the narrative. The social commentary is flippant, part of the plot rather than a message.
I do consider myself to be one of the best writers ever. Of course I am probably wrong. I may also be right. My work is what it is regardless.
They are very good.
ReplyDeleteThanks! They are labors of love, made of that very love.
DeleteTo have written so much in such a short amount of time takes inspiration. When we love what we do, it tends to show. It is the love which draws attention to the work.
ReplyDeleteI am starting to slow down. Brute force determination does work... but only to a point. Muscle failure is a thing, even with intellectual endeavors.
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