So I’ve been trying to work on revisions of Hard Luck.
I’m trying to sing my song, because it’s a song nobody else can sing. It’s difficult to know if I’m singing a song others will understand. It’s difficult to know if I’m conveying what I want to convey, and if I’ve got the chops to do it,
It’s a song I need to sing, and whether they like it or not, I’ve worked on it for so long that I need people to hear it. I love the world inside my head, and the people who live there. Breathing life into them for others is my intent. I have a vision.
I’m afraid for my prose: that it won’t sing. My reputation. I’m afraid that the people I love will look at it and then at me, and be disgusted — but this is me, really me. This is what goes on inside me, and I keep reminding myself that the people who really love me will take it for what it is, the song that I have to sing to them, and to the world, whether or not it is to their particular taste.
I’m afraid that strangers will look upon it with their critical eyes, and loathe it.
I’m afraid, but as a good friend of mine said to me, “Without fear, there is no courage.” So I’m rolling on, John, and I’m going to sing it from the rooftops: that song in my secret heart.