why I write

the goblin, at this point, walked alone along a beach in his imagination where, having come across a washed up stick, the goblin suddenly wonders what he could write across the wet sand on this windy day, "...well, aren't you wasting your time impudent goblin..." came a very old voice somewhere outside him "... surely, you know very well that I will just wash your scribbles away with the next tide..." came the mocking sea's voice carried through its waves faintly under in the sea breeze on to the still goblin, it seemed to continue "...go ahead and write, write and be dammed for all I care since I will only wash it all away afterwards..." the sea repeated again and again to the goblin who after a long while moved the stick slowly across the sand writing "for now I know the gods must envy us our mortality", afterwhich, the goblin ran up to the waves and flung the stick into the sea retorting "...ah but I, in my one little moment, can write on this sand, so take this stick now and show me what it is that you, with all your forever then, can write here..." but the stick just floated in the water, perhaps to drift back to the goblin, or perhaps not to then, as the goblin walked on passed that day but never really far from the grip that it had held over him ever since

Reviews

[Dhara_Ditzy Kat]

There is always that event, that thing, that occurring, that moves us to write. I relate to your words and find them interesting.

[fleamailman]

"...glad you liked it..." replied the goblin hoping his continence wasn't too unbecoming, and yes he knew the way he wrote was somewhat ungainly too, but then he just blurted "...pleased to meet you now, guess I'll go read your works shortly and review something of yours if you like but only if you have fine coffee and biscuits...", and with that the smiled from one ear to the other, yes anything for coffee and biscuits he felt

[Dhara_Ditzy Kat]

You're welcome to my parkour for a cup of coffee and some very nice gourmet biscuits, my dear goblin. It will be nice to read more of you and which I will do soon. :)

[fleamailman]

"...take me where you wilst..." replied the goblin not a moment too soon, before adding "...well I do write a lot but I prefer rapport myself, I mean why not chat to one's audience, humans can be most interesting at times, not that I ever understand them myself, just saying though...", whereupon the goblin wondered if what one wrote wrote one back too

[Dhara_Ditzy Kat]

Well, it always helps to chat with humans of our interest sometimes. A solitary being doesn't usually an effective writer make. Our stories are human and about humans. The goblin wonders rightly :)

[fleamailman]

"...suppose so, but you try telling that to those writertypes who think real writing is books and chapters in books too, but you're a poetess, and a good one I might add, so my opinion on unread books I will leave be..." ventured the goblin surrounded by those ghosts of his past mostly, relating "...odd thing that, I mean it might be about humans as you say but mostly it's just me conversing with ghosts in those long moments in front of one's keyboard...", the hour was late now, outside the moon was ever a crooked smile in the observing darkness still, and no doubt those ghosts would show up shortly, sighing "...a writer is a piteous creature really, the readers move on, but the ghost have nowhere else to go..."

[Dhara_Ditzy Kat]

Truly, very truly, as you say, a writer is not considered worth his or her salt unless he or she has well marketed books in their names...but what of those other beleaguered souls, who have but disjointed thoughts, brilliant albeit in flashes, who live suspended in fragmented reals, worldly and ghostly, the ghosts never leaving, wanting to converse, to confound, if not this, what was it all about and why me or why not me...?

[Dhara_Ditzy Kat]

realms....

[fleamailman]

"...readers always move on..." repeated the goblin continuing "...writers are stuck with their ghosts still, that's all...", where fame and fortune changes nothing in that respect, and where one just gets use to it in the end