Uninspired

I write books. I illustrate the covers and create the title fonts. If my books are ever professionally published, it is very unlikely my covers and fonts shall be used. I may be required to change the text as well. The fiction shall no longer be my private property. It shall belong to whoever buys it from me. My art shall be reduced to merchandise.

I love my creative freedom. It does not pay the bills, however. It does not provide professional marketing. Both the writer and the fiction languish unless I sell my work.

When I was young, the very idea of selling out was unthinkable. I would sell, but on my own terms. Not anymore.

I am getting old. I already have injuries. My unskilled jobs require physical prowess I am losing. I would sell my work if given the opportunity. It would sadden me to have it published without my covers. I would hate changing the stories at someone else’s whim. I would have peace of mind, however. I would have what I need and could live comfortably.

I am learning to not care. I am too tired to bother anymore.

I write and render as best I can, always. That shall never change. It is proving not to matter, though. After all these long years and after all that hard work, I am languishing. My work languishes in obscurity and seems doomed to fade away.

I disbelieve. My ignorance was my only bliss… but now it is simply confusion. I was proven wrong. The idealism in my fiction is fiction indeed. I hope, for that is all I can do, that I shall be lucky enough to eventually have the opportunity to sell out. I shall do so given the chance, but not for fame and fortune of themselves. It is to make myself comfortable as I await the end.

https://www.amazon.com/stores/Shawn-OToole/author/B07C28S75Z?ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true

My Guilty Pleasure

I read the Agatha Christie novel And Then There Were None. I know the title is not the original. The name of the setting was according to the title. The story is what it is however. Its characters are believable, the setting ambient and the plot immersive. It is a murder mystery about murderers as the victims.

My suspect was not the killer. Everything is explained. I felt tricked but not cheated. There was a clue I missed until a character mentions it outright.

I began reading just past midnight in the first hour of Wednesday July 9^th and finished nearly a quarter past 4 PM on Friday, July 11, 2025. I thought to only read at night but read most of the book in the light day. Though scary, it is a murder mystery, not technically a horror story.

What I loved most about the novel was my sympathy for the protagonists. Though they are all guilty of dastardly deeds, I am shown the world from their perspectives. They are not sadists but rather normal people who crossed a line. They are horrified when their dark secrets are revealed.

I dream a recurring theme since my young adulthood. I am guilty of a murder. I do not know who I murdered or if it was deliberate or not. I am living my normal life and at peace when I forget my crime, thinking I got away with it. When I remember, however, I am sickened with dread. I know everyone will turn on me and my life is over if anyone finds out.

Such was my interest in reading And Then There Were None… and I was not disappointed.

Scribe of Dreams

I fancy myself one of the best writers of fiction ever. My opinion is either correct or a delusion of grandeur.

I illustrate my own covers. My covers are not the best ever. They are amateurish more often than not, actually. I create the title fonts. They are not the best ever either.

My excellence is my style of writing. I emphasize dialog and minimize descriptions. I mind the perspectives of the characters, main or supporting, having them speak as if real people.

Style is not enough for fiction to be the best. The stories must be immersive and the characters endearing. The themes must be relevant. The cause and effect must be credible. The ending must satisfy.

I have written many books but garnered few readers. Only a few of the few love my work. The evidence implies that I am not actually one of the best writers of fiction ever.

I read the complete works of H.P. Lovecraft... twice… and intend to read it again. Like me, he wrote many stories but garnered few readers in his lifetime. Few of the few loved his work, most of them fellow writers he corresponded with. He died in obscurity and poverty.

My “delusion of grandeur” may prove otherwise. Then again, I may not be around when that happens. I shall continue to write in the meantime.

https://www.amazon.com/stores/Shawn-OToole/author/B07C28S75Z?ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true

24 Years Ago

July 4, 2001 was my last day working for the grocery store Winn-Dixie. I did not want to leave. It was a good job. Alas, the chain was going out of business in my area. I was already employed elsewhere, with Walmart.

I worked many busy hours at two stores for over two weeks. It was against the rules in both but the managers pretended not to notice. I did what I did with their blessing. I did not stay at Winn-Dixie for my own sake, to be clear.

By the rules of the part of the world I live in, I am morally obligated to give my employers a two week notice before leaving. Working at Winn-Dixie till July 4^th exceeded this expectation.

In my country, July 4^th is Independence Day. It is among the busiest days of the year. When I gave my two week notice, the manager of Winn-Dixie despaired. He remarked that Walmart deliberately hired me quickly to keep him from having enough workers on July 4^th. His accusation was probably true, since the new Walmart supercenter being built was intended to put smaller businesses like Winn-Dixie out of business.

I stayed days longer than I wanted to. Not only was I tired, but there was drama between myself and a co-worker at Winn-Dixie I would rather escape. The manager was not a friend of mine. I did not owe him a favor… for anything. I heard the despair in his voice and saw it in his face. I did what I did for him… to give him peace of mind.

I worked very hard on my last day. I did more than what was ever required. I did not leave until the manager said all was well. He smiled. He shook my hand and swore that if I ever needed him for anything, he would help. There was nothing he could do for me… but I knew he meant what he said. I was glad I did what I did for him.

I did what I did twenty-four years ago. It did not change the world. It meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. It gave one man peace, however. Rather than say “Peace be with you” and leave him to his fate, I acted instead. It was not what I wanted to do… and I had every right to do what I want… but I am what I am.