Sometimes

Sometimes, I wish that I could write the great American novel.

(For those of you, like I, who are born Canadian, will understand the partial embarrassment of the phrase "great Canadian novel" because two words explain it perfectly: Margaret Atwood. I rest my case.)

The closest thing that I have, currently, are my opinionated, personal pieces that I write from week to week on this online journal, a journal of which I like to flatter myself by thinking that I actually have an audience of more than one. Now, whether or not I do in reality, I guess that I'll never know, but I'll admit that I like to humor myself by believing I have a following!

Then, there are sometimes when I wish that I could spend my days surrounded by nature, writing and arranging the English language to my fancy into something so fantastically sublime or adventurously grand with romance and intrigue as its subtextual sustenance.

There are even times that I imagine myself sitting alone on a rocky outlook in Northern Canada, with all beauty below, only the cloudless heavens above and only a peaceful autumn breeze to keep my company...

...Oh my! Perhaps, I just want to be the femme figure of the late L.M. Montgomery's literary success. How strange.

But I have come to the conclusion that, in life, anything is possible, therefore as long as I never put my pen down or let my words fail the page, I might just turn out my own great work of literary art. Then again, beauty is in the eye of its beholder, so it might be considered to be not very good, but at least I will have authored something, complete with my name printed across the front cover.

Who knows? Maybe all in some time.