How is it possible that with EVERY book that I read I find passages that I get tripped up on, like a needle getting hung up on a record. I read it back, over and over. Analyzing each letter, each punctuation mark, each paced breath between words... again and again... and every time I look at it, I get a little inspired and more than a little irked. I swear that I have thought those exact words. I just never had time to jot it in a little journal or this blog or the novel that I eventually will commit to starting.... but those are my words.
I loop back around to the start and read them again... again... again... and then I am forced to decide. Am I peeved? My great lyrical invention was swiped from my unconscious, splattered in ink across a page that should rightfully belong to me. I have been robbed and bamboozled and just to rub it in, the burglar is driving past my house in my stolen car. Am I angry? Or am I proud? Clearly, I should be flattered. I shared the same thought process, the same meticulous word combination/scramble game until those perfect lines came in a moment of inspiration. I am every bit as intelligent as the author of this book whose work has been published and who the librarian can help you locate, just by alphabetical order. I am some small part of a secret elite, hiding in the background, behaving as a muse or maybe just a token of coincidence. But I am in good company now. Should I sit back and half-smile to myself and think of the things that I will say when they finally come to document my life and write my autobiography?
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