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Everything I write has a hint of a suicide note. It’s the dark undercurrent of all my stories. I can’t help it. I’ve thought about it all my life.
What would I write in my suicide note? It’s the greatest writing assignment. It’s the ultimate inspiration.
So, I’ve been waiting. I’m waiting for my muse to find me. I’ve been waiting for a long while. What will my ultimate inspiration be? What will finally push me to take my own fucking life? Imagine the writing I will do in those last few moments.
After every setback, every failure, after every single rejection, I wonder. Is this it? Is this what will finally break me. Is this what will inspire my greatest poem?
I am a very patient artist.
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What is particularly satisfying about this blog, from a literary standpoint, is that it offers a reading experience. The narrative is growing in real time. Each new narrative is a new piece to the puzzle, a clarification of some earlier point, or a complete re-evaluation of the entire project.
The author is groping for his own truth and letting the world watch. As a readers, I begin to form an idea of this person in my mind. I read and re-read sections, hunting for clues.
I mean, imagine it, I could figure this guy out. He’s completely open. What would it be like to really know another person? What would it be like to really know Tom Hardie?
It’s highly addictive reading.
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