The Journey To A Published Novel

 Shattered Vanilla I always fear I'm sharing too much. When, in fact I think I don't share enough. Hence the photograph. I could worry you might look at the files I have open or the pages of internet I browse. The apps running. Are any of them questionable? Maybe, but if so. Let's have a dialogue. I suppose a glass of red wine later, I'm filled with confidence. Apathy, whatever. I'll hit publish on this and soon regret it. It's the fear of rejection. Slipping into obscurity. Amnesia is the fundamental destiny for us all. Having eyes not seeing, brains not thinking. Words not heard. All that pretentious bullshit that I try my utmost to avoid. We're all just so profound. Shattered Vanilla is the third novel I'm concentrating on. I have to admit, I was dispondent after the release of the first two. Flagpole still flys, anonymously. I shoudl do more work to 'market' it. I'm afraid to Dodge 'Ram' it down peoples throats. I'm not a sale

  Pop and crisps.    Saturday was like all others. We did everything the same. Through fear of ruining the winning streak. I still don’t know how I do it. I can’t explain a lot of things.   My granddad never said a word. A subtle head nod, and dart of his eyes. I’d catapult myself up, floating to the top of the kitchen counter. Perch on my knees and gesture to  retrieve  one red packet of crisps. The ‘pop’, as he called it, cascaded like a waterfall into a tall bottomless glass. They appeared with a crack, three ice cubes every time. They could have encouraged the luck.     My grandparents' bungalow was a pirate ship. Sometimes the garden overflowed hot lava. I’d jump from moss covered rockery to a treasure island. My feet couldn’t touch the ground. They’d burn up in sticky flames. Some weeks, the greenhouse was an Anderson shelter, protecting me from falling bombs. The noise would shake my brain. I would hop from joist to joist as if they were steely blades. I had to outrun the sh