Some novels leave me in awe; some novels I do not understand. Other novels get a pretty harsh treatment, even after I loved reading them or gulped them down quicker than ice cream in July. That’s when I can feel my inner writing rat stir.
My inner writing rat has a butternut squash body with big boned feet sticking out from beneath. He is slightly unkempt and he holds a soil goose feather as a pen. His tongue is always blue from whetting the tip. He works hunched over the page. By work, I mean he spends his time hunched over the page, ink dripping from the pen. He scribbles a bit now and then, but is often unable to decipher his smudged scratches.
When I read he draws his nose near to sniff, his whiskers twitching this way and that. He claims he is learned in books and readily frowns and wrinkles his nose at novels that do not meet his high standards. However, every time he does so, there are sub currants that he denies having.
“I want to write more. I could write something like this. Why haven’t I written already?”
He whets the tip of the pen between his ratty lips and hunches over the page again.