don’t know why I worry.
shouldn’t worry so much, about how a neighbor might respond to a gift in a self-published book. Thinking of some of the stories in the bible and fairy tales fed to kids – hardly Hallmark ingredients.
And that might be part of the problem: too tame, too mild, too comfortable for the young, rowdy and hip crowd but a touch too dirty and irreverent for the wholesome crowd, but not really dirty nor extremely antagonistic. Too literary for the non-literary and not anti-literary enough for the literary. More like fringe-land abstraction-humor desperately trying to avoid contact with anything that hints of importance. Yet that in itself attracts an importance.
However there is a sort of long-lost delight in a sense of tension which brings a sentimental longing for the days when there were more activities one might feel they were courting darkness if they’d flirt too long. Or the idea of consciously creating a work where the layers are several.
Yes I’m sure I worry too much. Shouldn’t worry so much. It is a welcome challenge to try and write something that anyone could read. Then again maybe that’s the last thing a wanna-be wordsmith ought to ponder. Worry too damn much. Shouldn’t worry so damn much.