I don't think this will ever amount to much. I do think, though, that people are far too pretentious nowadays when it comes to the writings of our long-gone American beloved equipped with fountain pens and typewriters. I love Steinbeck as much as the 45-year-old English teacher standing in front of me, but I don't know about all that inflated Id, Ego, and Super-ego crap.
I think Mr. Nobody was itching to make a name for themselves and decided applying some Freudian bullshit to the first classic that fit the script would earn them their place among the acclaimed. While my table may be as good as a soggy, cardboard box in the back-alley of an Applebee's, I can assure you that they do not have a seat saved.
I won't pretend that this whole ordeal doesn't give me anxiety. I know how important the first few lines are. I know the hot garbage I've just spewed onto my keyboard can't compete with Salinger or Vonnegut. I just hope that I've gotten them right for me and my brand.
I want to get to know you.
YOU ARE READING
Tinsel and Amethyst
De Todoa paltry attempt at something like "diary of an oxygen thief" - except written by a 16 year old and arguably worse
