The habit of giving opinions and advice on matters outside of one’s knowledge.
That is certainly true of how my brain works when I am struggling to wrestle words to portray meaning to others. This is another piece of writing from my first experience of NaNoWriMo. I was nearing the conclusion of the month and getting the aaaarghs when the lovely gentleman who lives in a cosy home in the back of my right hemisphere, gave me another good talking to, he spoke to me a lot during November. He is a very smart person, actually pretty Sherlockian in the Cumberbatch way of things. He likes to be flattered. So this is what he said. (I have just now divided it into paragraphs as the handwritten original sped on through the whole page)
Gnash your jaws and prevaricate and don’t let the mud stick to your boots and develop into sown seeds of discontent intended for the farmer’s wife of understandable consternation. Sometimes and occasionally emotions are court jesters distracting the palaces as the guards are over run with pounding chains and hammered rivals clamouring up the rugged and broken castle walls . Rocks and boulders shatter down from roofs and land on helmeted heads of weary soldiers fatigued in battle in a quill to resist the depths of despondency.
The tyranny of the blank page shall be consumed by ink and thoughts will bleed and cover the landscape. Futility is not an option. The manhandling of words a great joy to behold in a mangled hand shamed by the weakness of the muscles and the voracity of the flesh. The stamina of the mind and body to produce original works whilst the host manifestation is still and quiet and under command of it’s hypnotising poet released into the real world from the far reaches of the dark forests. It is easier to decrease the clutter and just let the citizens themselves take to the page and dance among the ink drops falling from the gutters.
Don’t stop, keep writing and just drift into a meditative state and I Charles Dickens shall grab the pen from you and work my magic upon your persona and be kindly gentle with your soul. Do not interfere with my creative processes, just allow me to hold the pen steady and neatly and so I can produce my finest work. I only meant that I am Charles Dickens in the lightest most playful, metaphorical sense for I would never denigrate that great man’s work with my own writings and ponderous most egotistical meanderings.
Now Shakespeare, a fine fellow. Inventor of many words which bathe my soul and creep along my flesh as I ignomously lay my body down on tartuffian sheets of good grace and lamp lit sustenance to ascribe my most platonic rest of sacred spirits and shivered spectres. No time to curve the letters into pleasing shapes. Just write and be most grateful that I am here to fill your empty manuscript with fantastical beasts and fleets of fancy conjured up from the warmth of tides and the ever present moon stirring the ocean into eroding away doubt and shining the morning sunlight on to polished granuales of millions nay billions of subservient worlds. The explorer’s footprints christening the Earth.