I can write.

I can tell tall tales.

I will tell you of the terrible events in a Cairo alleyway, the scars that such things cause; and you will wipe away a tear or two.

I will tell you what it is like to fly through a thunderstorm, the wind, the rain, the dancing with the lightning; all the time screaming life affirming declarations as you do.

I will do that.

I’ll make you angry, probably make you sad too. 

But I will also give you highs.

The sheer joy that is love – this I will tell you about again and again and again.

We will celebrate this love.

We will mourn its loss too.

We will seek revenge.

We will suffer for our desired justice; and then stare into the abyss that is the blackened remnants of our soul.

I will do this for you.

We will fight magic, embrace Celtic folklore and travel to the dreamworld that will stitch it all together. 

All of this and so much more, so very much more will I give to you if only you’ll read my scribbles.

And therein lies the rub.

It doesn’t matter how good the journey I offer if nobody ever takes the trip.

I can write.

I can tell tall tales.

But I cannot get an agent.

I cannot entice someone to take a chance.

If they did, they wouldn’t regret it.

But I cannot get them to.

I can write.

I can tell tall tales.