Too many words. Too many words. Far too many words.
I just returned, again, from the local book store where, for once, I went determined not to buy a book. I simply toured the entire store thinking about why some writers are read and others are discarded.
I sense great futility.
The only point that brings me some measure of peace is this: If I can remain detached, detached from my own needs for recognition, then perhaps I can write only that which will give the most help to the specific group I am trying to help.
Otherwise, what is the point?
I am a dying man.
I cannot waste my words.
I cannot waste my energies.
