Fifteen-hundred seventy and nine, or 1579 if you prefer.
If I wrote that many words each and every day for a year, I would have five-hundred seventy-six thousand, four-hundred fifty and nine. or 576,459 in the numerical sense.
That is the amount of words in the saga of the Lord of the Rings, including the Hobbit. I do not see my self as a Tolkien, far from it I assure you. However, some of you who have been the Gentle Readers the longest may remember I went for a whole year doing a minimum of two thousand words a day. Which adds up to a little over one-hundred fifty thousand, that 150,000, words MORE than the aforementioned Lord of the Rings.
Now I understand one can not compare quantity and quality, that is not what I am trying to do here. What I am trying to say, to myself and you happen to be watching the conversation, is that if I can write about nothing for an entire year at two-thousand words a day, why in the name of all the fucks mankind has ever given, received, and harvested can’t I write a fucking book that follows the same guidelines?
I think I can,and I will tell you how.
I can’t force two-thousand words of fiction every day. I can’t. War and Peace is shorter than that and I am not Tolstoy.
I can however, write poetry like that. Not two thousand word poems, but tens, or even dozens, of short poems that add up to that.
Now, no one wants to read 500 pages of poetry, so the number needs to be something I think people will read.
This is where you can help.
Me, my poetry, original and not copies of things I have done before. Lets say a poem a page.
How long? How short?
I want to write a book, this is day one I think.
Tell me what you would read.
© 2020, TheJameyBear. All rights reserved.
I am JameyBear. Liberal. Hippie. Dad. Widower. Poet. Author. Sarcastic Ass. Friend. Lover. Hater.
I have lied and cheated, stolen and done violence in word and deed.
I have given the shirt off my back and they wanted the skin underneath instead.
I am a notorious soft touch, wearing my heart on my sleeve and wanting to make everyone happy.
I tip too much, too often, too many places, and it is has burned me even as recent as this week.
I love everyone I have ever hated still. I will always love the memory of being in love with them.
I want to be your friend. No. I want you to want me to be your friend.
I am clingy and needy, dependent and hopelessly lost in times that I will never live in.
I use language that was archaic when archaic was a new word in the early 19th century.
I want to record myself reading everything so people won’t forget me when I disappear.
I talk too much, listen too deeply, process too quickly and infer way too much.
My beard is also better than yours