I'm going to start keeping a dream log, because I want to write a book. Kubla-khan came to Coleridge in the the throes of an opium trip, so maybe my true inspiration will come to me in a dream like state as well.
A stately pleasure-dome decree
I'm trying not to be pompous. I'm only eighteen and I'm trying to become an author. I think it's going to be an incredibly long and arduous task, but will merit me something in the end. I'm going to take everything I've ever known about writing and throw it down on the page. This is going to be hard though, as I don't want to sound like Salvitoire, Palahniuk, or Chirchton, each of there voices resounding in my psyche as I plot out words on the page. I want to be my own original and entirely embodied self. My thoughts given voice.
But Oh! That deep romantic chasm that slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
You start to ponder ponder think and lose control over your hands when you write sometimes. This is going to become common. Just take a shot at the page, lose control. It'll be invigorating, you'll feel like Alfred Molina in a tu-tu at a wedding. This is freedom I suppose. why not. why why why anything. You're going to be writing free and completely liberated, get a tea and enjoy it. You'll be loving the experience.
A mighty fountain momently was forced
It's going to take forever, that's all I'm convinced of, as I don't have much time, but at this point I've settled in for the long run and it doesn't much matter how long I'll be stuck behind this computer. I want a conduit, I want some way for people to know my name, and this is my talent. This is my calling. And I'm going to share it with as many people as I find I possibly can.
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.