100 Novels

100 novels live inside me.

Some I write as poems because I get bored quickly.

Some have a natural hook and a dance beat. They become songs.

A few bloom into a full plot, character sketches, random baubles of backstory.


I finished two.

One lives in a black hole in cyberspace.

The other lives in my memory and on a five-and-a-quarter inch floppy disk.

Both corrupted storage media.


Sometimes, rarely, a novel will arrive in a sense of fullness,

a complete glorious narrative waiting for the telling.

And there it recluses, known only in the flash of my firefly attention.


But what a concept.

What an ending.


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