Preface

I wrote this back two summer ago when I wrote my book. And all of this is dead true. This was supposed to be the preface I think...enjoy.

PREFACE

In a famous picture taken of the literary giant Ernest Hemingway, he is sitting in a comfortable straw chair, writing by hand. His head, with black hair and a mustache, is slightly turned to the left. The light of day reflects off of his brown rode that he wears. His eyes are situated six inches from what he is writing, and his pupils are expressionless as he writes on parchment.

This was Ernest Hemingway. But with myself, it is an entirely different picture. It is summer, and I come home late because of my job. I do the dishes. Then, with a sigh, I can hear nothing from the upstairs--all of my nine brothers and sisters are asleep. I walk, feebly and wearily, into my humble dwelling. My eyes ache and my head slightly hurts, as I take off my faithful companion--a sun-bleached green ‘John Deere’ hat. I fumble through my hair as I pull up a metal and plastic chair to my desk, small and brownish-red, as I sit down. My book. It sounds amazing. Suddenly, hundred of thousands of emotions and ideas flow through my brain, like a big rush of water. I see vivid colors, massive armies, beautiful ladies and girls, powerful romances, strong and unaging general and leaders, sadness, joy, love, courage, anger, heroic boys and their friends, calligraphy, darkness, light, quotes, stars, armour, huge mountains, dense forests, blue rivers, rocky roads, oldness, youth, childhood, incense, marble, quartz, rubies, diamonds, and thousands of thousands more. The list could go on and on, into infinity.

Then after these feelings and ideas leave, I begin my masterwork. My masterpiece. I don’t write it after my thoughts, my hand and characters do. All I do is just sit back and watch the book unfold, all by itself. That is the best part of the writing: watching it unfold. A smile creeps across my tired face. Suddenly I become emerged in my world. A world that only I can create.

I glance at my watch. 10:49 pm. I rub my eyes after completing another 5-10 pages of my masterpiece. I know it will be finished, and I won’t stop until it is whether it’s 300 pages or 1,500. I can say that I have finished my masterpiece. I put the book carefully away, and turned of the dim, black shaded light, and leave it there to be picked up another night.