|photo by Oladimeji Ajegbile|
|photo by Pixabay|
To read a sad story takes awhile. To write a sad story takes…a long time. In spring, I can’t picture myself doing anything but looking at the sun. I guess I’ll get back to my moaning and groaning in type in a few days when it rains, but I’m thinking of only writing happy stories from now on, because… it takes too much out of you.
Me and Roe are booking some vacations. They’ll be nice. Various natural scenarios. The woods and the sea.
And now back to books.
No Heaven for Good Boys is too upsetting, but I’ll keep reading it. It’s amazing the sway the marabouts have over poor kids in Senegal. They take them from their families and treat them horribly. No one does a thing. The kids are beaten if they don’t raise enough coinage begging in the street. Or worse. Now I’m invested in the characters, I seem in for a horrible time, unless I throw the book out the window which I never do, although it might be for the better. Keisha Bush really places you there if there is where you really want to be. I feel torn between the sway of good writing and the sway of heading for the hills.
My own depressing work of art isn’t good writing yet and won’t be until a lot more drafts. At least as good as it’s gonna get. I’m going to have to figure out a way to enjoy myself through it or not do it, because now it’s just pain.