OCTOBER 10, 2004 (SUNDAY)
I am slowly running out of words.
Like in the Eric Gamalinda story, “Professor Quemada’s Last Words,” my life’s work has been bound by word count and page numbers. With every piece that I write, it seems as though the words are trickling from my fingers and on the keyboard and into some virtual graveyard of words. Stories are confined in the little black box of the computer monitor and to extend beyond is tantamount to breaking the law. Say too little and you’re not telling a story. Say too much and you’re overwriting. Where is the fine line that I’m supposed to be walking, crossing, pretending that it exists?
This is what I am good at, I tell myself, a meteor about to crash.