Borrowing from the future

I have ideas, but do you want them?

I am deeply intrigued by the idea of writing, of being or becoming a writer. Gaiman says it's the easiest thing in the world, just slit your wrists and bleed for it. I want to boil over with hyperbole about my adoration of words, but have found that I can manage only a good simmer most of the time. This is alright if I remember to be more patient  about the words I'm stewing. In this metaphor, it's my kitchen and you all can wait until I have good stew to serve.

I have spent many hours at other stoves like this one, in that cyber-sex is more of a short-order cook arrangement. When someone comes into my word-diner, with those late night munchies... Order up...! It's masturbatory bliss, these cunning linguistics. A seraglio of sentences. It's really not a big deal either way. Somehow I got it lodged in my head that it makes sense to be afraid of things as though my writing were a big deal to anyone else.

Seems a bit absurd to borrow from the future such trouble as this.

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