Welcome. Anonymous Author holds a mirror to the face of humanity, asking what it really means to be human,

and in doing so blurs the line between what is good and bad writing.

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Monday, May 30, 2011


The notebook’s beige cover accentuated its bright red logo. The pages offered advice from a dazzling array of literary lights: The best stories are the ones worth writing; every story needs an Iago. Aphorisms were highlighted in the margins. Writerly wisdom concerning style and tone traced indentations through the white leaves and ingredients with which to concoct literary alchemy glowed on the pages. Say what you mean... just write... deadline three weeks, vivid red ink formally warned. Time pressure’s good... book the baby sitter... cancel coffee group, dreary black felt-tip casually prescribed. Problem solved. 

There would be plenty of time to focus in the precious spaces between life. This will be a brilliant story. The story deserved to be written. It would be a story that inspires and explains – a story worth passing on.

Yet plot, characters and theme, voice, tone and language, poetic prose pared to lean syntax, the satisfied sigh of the last line, the simple beauty of the story to grow within the reader, revealing parts of itself days later, remain scattered like seeds in this private notebook. What prevents me from gifting this story to readers? Am I afraid to expose my words, or am I afraid these words will expose me? Am I alone in this fear? Ends.

The story has not been written.