Saturday, June 7, 2014


By page 22, I realize the difference, and significance, of reading authors whose writing style I share versus reading authors whose genre I share. "He writes just like me," I think to myself, already having discovered the oddness of my preference for reading nonfiction yet writing fiction years ago. In the very eye of a perfectly crafted metaphor lies the human soul and the sum total of its human experience. And that is when my epiphany runs naked through the riot. My stories are not fiction, and that is why you cannot read them. My stories are the eye of my soul- all it has seen and felt, twisted upon itself to create a world of could-have-beens and could-bes, dancing together in step with all that has already been. My name cannot be Aimee. Because I will not let you see me naked. That is why I am the deus ex machina. The god in a box I've carried with me since the day I took my first breath in this world. I am not your savior. I am not your key appearing from nowhere as if molded by the gales of Neptune and dropped in your hand by his will alone. I am my own god. My own savior. My own key.   

"He writes just like me," I think to myself. 

Sing a song of sixpence?
I think I'll hide my pie.