A Word From The Writer

 

 

            (Yesterday, Jen Desmond, the nurse practitioner on the island, said I was manic.  “Does that mean I have gone mad?” I said.)

            (“Let's just say you're manic,” said Jen.)

            (I am literally in a race against time to finish this book.  I can't breathe.  I can't sleep.  For two nights I have sat in a wing chair in the living room, simply because it is too painful to breathe when I lay down.)

            (Who is going to read this book?  How am I going to get it to a publisher?  And what will a publisher say when he beholds this pile of manuscript?  Most of them say, “Send me a few pages, and I'll tell you how I like it.”  A few pages?  I have to laugh.  How could anyone tell anything about this book from a few pages?)

            (I am not famous.  It is as simple as that.  I'm just not famous.  I am nothing.  I am nobody.  I may be equally talented with some people who are famous, but the reality is that I am nobody.  Can a book written in such agony make its own fame?)

            (The answer will lie in the work itself.  Read my book.  Read my plays.  Look at my photographs and paintings.  They are all that will survive me.)   

 

                                                                                                            February 3, 2015

 

 

 

 

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All writing, photography and illustration ©2016 John Wulp unless otherwise noted.