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.

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