My second note here on smol.pub.
I was going to write about some dead poets but then I read and enjoyed a recent post by janeladigital.
I've been thinking the same thing. So this is...
un texto absurdo para algunos lectores imaginarios de un escritor ficticio.
An absurd text for imaginary readers by a fictitious writer. Or something like that.
Imaginary readers are appreciative and brilliant and extraordinary. Mine are anyway. I guess in the future they will not always like what I write, but right now they are lovely and supportive. And if I just wrote in a private journal they (you) wouldn't exist. Publishing here makes them (you) possible. It's a necessary condition for them (you) to exist. And by helping you to exist I can help myself to exist. And perhaps grow.
"I'm writing about myself looking at paintings," I told her, "and sometimes at plants."
"Is there a market for that?"
"I'm sure there is not."
"What makes you do it, then?"
"My soul," I said boldly.
- from Indelicacy, a wonderful novel by Amina Cain.
And I loved what coldscars said about writing for an ever-changing 'you'...
And I like that smol.pub doesn't have comments and upvotes and thumbs and all that competitive stuff. It's why I choose to write here. It feels peaceful.
Seoirse