Nothing good

I've always wanted to write a book. About what? No idea. I've also always felt that I don't have anything worth writing about that would interest enough people to necessitate publishing a book.

I finished The Fountainhead night before last. I loved it. What was it about? Love, really. Not architecture or socialism or objectivism. But love. And some of that other stuff mixed in. It makes me wonder what happened to Ayn Rand that makes her have such sick, twisted views about relationships and sex. With her, I feel like I have now entered the twilight zone. Bizarre. Violent. Possessive. It made me think that if something that . . . creepy . . . has to happen to me to give me something worth writing a book about, forget it. I'll stick to my blog. Thank you very much.

When I finished reading about Dominique and Howard Roark, I picked up where I left off with the Furies books. That leads me to another interesting thought. Where do fantasy and sci-fi authors get this stuff? Dreams? Man. My dreams are just innane and strange. Saturday, I dreamt that I was on a mission to find alpaca underwear. Monday, I dreamt that I lost my clothes and when I found them, they were covered in ants. How did Middle Earth come about? Was JRR just sitting around in his alpaca underwear, covered in ants, and say to himself, "Mordor. That's just south of the Misty Mountains. I think a bodiless, demon man should live there and should seek to control the world through fear and hate. Yes. I'll write a book about that." Definitely. That's definitely how it happened.

Maybe I'm right. Maybe nothing has happened in my life (or my dreams) that's worth writing about. Maybe nothing ever will. Who knows? Doug is writing a book. Three actually. Maybe I should just be his editor and leave the creative stuff to somebody else. Because alpaca underwear? That's a flop just waiting to happen.