Quiet, Please

For some odd reason, I feel like writing in whispers, if it were possible. I feel it best if I were to write, with one hand muffling my mouth (as if words came from there,) tucked away in some unlikely but perfectly suitable corner of the house, where I might then feel I could appropriately express anything at all. I don’t believe introversion and extroversion should be taken too seriously in the definition of a person; I think anyone can feel this way.

I am looking about. I am listening. You are waiting for me to say something, perhaps. Well, I’ll let you know that I was inspired to write the first couple sentences–one and a half, technically–of the prologue for one of the books I am writing. It is either for a second edition of the first book, which is already published, or for the second book, if the first is to be treated as an introduction to the following three. We’ll see. Anyhow, for reasons having to do with this woman behind the curtain’s sensibilities, I shall not quote those few lines to you.

Even so, the point isn’t in what those exact words are–the main thing is that my imagination has found its right perspective in how to progress. Now I can escape the stagnation, or writer’s block if you will. It is like tied-together bed sheets to escape from a tower or second-story window, or like a flowing stream leading out of a dismal cave. The happenings within that premises, of which mysteries I will endeavor to dispel, are those of an unknown and almost invisible legend. I cannot do anything but to recall and recount it, and leave its significance to the audience. I am but the storyteller with a good memory . . . Much happened indeed. But I’m in no mood for speaking at the moment, so I shall listen to discover even more what really happened.