Kevin M. McGreer's Blog
January 10, 2010
Finito
I've just finished my third draft of my first novel in a trilogy, and like the joke about the man who just flew in, WHEW, are my arms tired (not to mention my fingers, my brain, and my tenuous grip on sanity).
Now, as I wait for the final verdict from the people who I am fortunate enough to have as my readership (i.e. my oldest daughter, my wife, a few select friends/family) to compose my fourth, and hopefully final, draft (all tinkering aside), I am filled with a weird sense of optimism and dread at the endeavor still ahead of me, my closest comparison being the time I ran the Chicago Marathon.
By the time the sun had come up, the day had turned into an unseasonably hot one in October (around eighty plus degrees). The first ten miles went really well; I was energetic, had hit my stride (an average ten minutes per mile, which placed me smack dab in the center of the thirty or so thousand participants), and began to believe that it was possible to really do this (the farthest I had run was nineteen miles three weeks earlier). Then things started to go south around the sixteenth mile. Every step was a trial in the making. The aforementioned heat became a tangible burden, like I had strapped hot and sweaty iron dumbells to my arms and legs. I felt deprived of the plentiful (if somewhat polluted) oxygen all around me, and sweat poured from me like musky rain (when comparing the before and after photo later, it looked like I had literally lost ten pounds (in reality I had lost six in the five, count them, five hours it had taken to finish the race. Talk about your dramatic weight loss)).
In short, it sucked.
Now, the funny thing is, I don't actually remember running the last ten miles or so. The photo on the right side of this very blog was taken in the last mile of the aforementioned race, and that blank, where the hell am I look, is as genuine as it gets. I was in a fugue state at that point, very similar to the one I get in when I stop thinking about writing and just tell the story.
At this point, you may be asking what is the point? The point is that I did finish the race. I didn't think it could be done, but I did it.
Wanting to be a published writer who gets paid enough to get to do this for a living is a lot like that. Does it take dedication? Yes. Sacrifice? Ditto. Time? Too much. But let me tell you from someone who lives it every day, and who has for the last ten years since I began to take myself serious enough to write seriously...
It's worth it.
Every last mile.
Now, as I wait for the final verdict from the people who I am fortunate enough to have as my readership (i.e. my oldest daughter, my wife, a few select friends/family) to compose my fourth, and hopefully final, draft (all tinkering aside), I am filled with a weird sense of optimism and dread at the endeavor still ahead of me, my closest comparison being the time I ran the Chicago Marathon.
By the time the sun had come up, the day had turned into an unseasonably hot one in October (around eighty plus degrees). The first ten miles went really well; I was energetic, had hit my stride (an average ten minutes per mile, which placed me smack dab in the center of the thirty or so thousand participants), and began to believe that it was possible to really do this (the farthest I had run was nineteen miles three weeks earlier). Then things started to go south around the sixteenth mile. Every step was a trial in the making. The aforementioned heat became a tangible burden, like I had strapped hot and sweaty iron dumbells to my arms and legs. I felt deprived of the plentiful (if somewhat polluted) oxygen all around me, and sweat poured from me like musky rain (when comparing the before and after photo later, it looked like I had literally lost ten pounds (in reality I had lost six in the five, count them, five hours it had taken to finish the race. Talk about your dramatic weight loss)).
In short, it sucked.
Now, the funny thing is, I don't actually remember running the last ten miles or so. The photo on the right side of this very blog was taken in the last mile of the aforementioned race, and that blank, where the hell am I look, is as genuine as it gets. I was in a fugue state at that point, very similar to the one I get in when I stop thinking about writing and just tell the story.
At this point, you may be asking what is the point? The point is that I did finish the race. I didn't think it could be done, but I did it.
Wanting to be a published writer who gets paid enough to get to do this for a living is a lot like that. Does it take dedication? Yes. Sacrifice? Ditto. Time? Too much. But let me tell you from someone who lives it every day, and who has for the last ten years since I began to take myself serious enough to write seriously...
It's worth it.
Every last mile.
December 30, 2009
Hurts So Good
I'm in the process of editing my third novel, the first in a trilogy. Every morning I wake up early, eat my bowl of Grape Nuts, drink my green tea, swallow my multi-vitamin, and then start redrafting my manuscript. My process goes something like this: write said novel (two years, minimum), take six weeks off (or as long as it takes to make the story's narrative go cold in my heart and mind), viciously and mercilessly line edit with red pen (like a used car dealership, every adverb MUST GO! Side note: a professional editor gave me this formula: no more than 3 adjectives and 1 adverb per page. Try to follow, if at all possible, and it is possible, even if you believe with all your being that the word "excruciatingly" belongs in your protagonist's description of his or her heartbreak, I'm willing to bet you we can do better), then correct digital copy, take a week off, reread aloud and polish, have trusted people read 3rd draft, compose 4th draft, and then let it go! Yes, you will want to change something later (and probably will), but it's as good as it's going to get right now, so like someone you love, set it free (i.e. submit like crazy). If it comes back to you (i.e. agent asking to represent you), it was meant to be. If not, you should already be in the process of writing your next novel.
In short, it takes gumption, hard, hard work, talent, faith, originality, and a little luck (okay, a lot) to get to do this for a living (from what I understand). And none of those things can exist without the other in a writer's world.
That's why not everybody can do it, and that's what makes it so worthwhile.
In short, it takes gumption, hard, hard work, talent, faith, originality, and a little luck (okay, a lot) to get to do this for a living (from what I understand). And none of those things can exist without the other in a writer's world.
That's why not everybody can do it, and that's what makes it so worthwhile.
June 28, 2009
Amateurland
One of the biggest challenges I've faced in the past ten years since I started writing seriously (or is it seriously writing?) is my decline into mediocrity. Namely, my failed attempt(s) to become a professional writer.
What does that REALLY mean, though? If it means getting paid, well then, that has happened for me (got my $30 check in the mail almost a year ago). But what I think we (meaning you and me) truly mean by "professional" is writing like one. And THAT my friends, is what led me down the path into Amateurland (to be clear, what I mean by "amateur" has more to do with attitude than aptitude, in this case).
Insidious, isn't it? We all do it (at least I'd like to imagine so) because we want our story to be great from the onset. Believe me, I know. All along I was trying my best: pouring over every sentence as I wrote it, every syllable as I wrote it, reading and rereading and re-rereading every paragraph as I wrote it, editing the story as I wrote it, changing the niggliest details as I wrote it, redrafting ten, twenty, thirty, seventy times (you guessed it) as I wrote it, and all so my manuscript would be perfect from beginning to "The End." If only hard work equaled quality. The truth is in writing it doesn't. Not if the hard work sounds anything like what I've described, because what I've described isn't a labor of love, it's torture (the writer's equivalent of water-boarding).
Don't do it to yourself. Take it from me, only one of two things can come of it: you'll go mad and quit or you'll go mad and realize what I'm trying to tell you now (Hemmingway thought of a third option, but I don't recommend it).
Just write. Don't worry about perfection (as my protagonist said in my first novel, "Perfect is for God and circles." I should've listened to his (meaning: my) advice; we both would've been better off if I had). Worry about crafting a story you not only love, but love writing. In the end, that's what will make it great.
I want to leave you today with a poem I wrote called, "Squeeze the Orange." It's about my youngest daughter and also happens to be my best example of why you should follow my advice. It came out of me whole, without a second thought or reservation. But most importantly, I wrote it in its entirety first, and THEN polished it. Had I not, I would've lost the moment, and therein lies the tragedy.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Orange… Salute!”
There she sways in her leotard,
lost in a mob of tumblers,
a chanter on naked toes.
“Form the orange, form,
form the orange…”
My daughter
the seven-year-old,
the second-grader,
who still doesn’t know
how to swim
or ride a bike.
Not from negligence
I hope you know,
but know you don’t believe.
“Peel the orange,
peel, peel the orange…”
It is simply her nature
to be cautious;
to worry the concern
for her own safety
smooth like a stone.
I have tried to instill
a fearlessness in her
I never felt myself.
It is my duty
as a father,
as the first man
she ever loved,
to be braver
than I am.
But then I remember
the time she stepped
too deep at the city pool;
her cheeks filled
with air like balloons
ready to pop.
She needed to breathe
as she looked up at me
with closed eyes,
pleading with her tiny hands
for her daddy to save her.
“Peel the orange,
peel, peel the orange…”
She hovers, waiting:
not forming,
not peeling,
my hazel eyes crouched
in her sockets,
fingers twiddling,
feet primed to spring.
She is not as nimble
as the others,
neither as statuesque
nor graceful
as God deemed in His
perfect wisdom
to deny her.
They dance in time
while she stands still.
“Squeeze the orange,
squeeze, squeeze the orange!”
She rushes her favorite teacher,
a young woman of seventeen,
and squeezes her with all her might
as the rest of the little girls
run to catch up with her.
She knew what she was doing all along.
Now she is first
in the center
of a warm,
safe little world:
not as pretty,
or fast,
or gifted
as some of them…
But more beautiful than them all.
What does that REALLY mean, though? If it means getting paid, well then, that has happened for me (got my $30 check in the mail almost a year ago). But what I think we (meaning you and me) truly mean by "professional" is writing like one. And THAT my friends, is what led me down the path into Amateurland (to be clear, what I mean by "amateur" has more to do with attitude than aptitude, in this case).
Insidious, isn't it? We all do it (at least I'd like to imagine so) because we want our story to be great from the onset. Believe me, I know. All along I was trying my best: pouring over every sentence as I wrote it, every syllable as I wrote it, reading and rereading and re-rereading every paragraph as I wrote it, editing the story as I wrote it, changing the niggliest details as I wrote it, redrafting ten, twenty, thirty, seventy times (you guessed it) as I wrote it, and all so my manuscript would be perfect from beginning to "The End." If only hard work equaled quality. The truth is in writing it doesn't. Not if the hard work sounds anything like what I've described, because what I've described isn't a labor of love, it's torture (the writer's equivalent of water-boarding).
Don't do it to yourself. Take it from me, only one of two things can come of it: you'll go mad and quit or you'll go mad and realize what I'm trying to tell you now (Hemmingway thought of a third option, but I don't recommend it).
Just write. Don't worry about perfection (as my protagonist said in my first novel, "Perfect is for God and circles." I should've listened to his (meaning: my) advice; we both would've been better off if I had). Worry about crafting a story you not only love, but love writing. In the end, that's what will make it great.
I want to leave you today with a poem I wrote called, "Squeeze the Orange." It's about my youngest daughter and also happens to be my best example of why you should follow my advice. It came out of me whole, without a second thought or reservation. But most importantly, I wrote it in its entirety first, and THEN polished it. Had I not, I would've lost the moment, and therein lies the tragedy.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Orange… Salute!”
There she sways in her leotard,
lost in a mob of tumblers,
a chanter on naked toes.
“Form the orange, form,
form the orange…”
My daughter
the seven-year-old,
the second-grader,
who still doesn’t know
how to swim
or ride a bike.
Not from negligence
I hope you know,
but know you don’t believe.
“Peel the orange,
peel, peel the orange…”
It is simply her nature
to be cautious;
to worry the concern
for her own safety
smooth like a stone.
I have tried to instill
a fearlessness in her
I never felt myself.
It is my duty
as a father,
as the first man
she ever loved,
to be braver
than I am.
But then I remember
the time she stepped
too deep at the city pool;
her cheeks filled
with air like balloons
ready to pop.
She needed to breathe
as she looked up at me
with closed eyes,
pleading with her tiny hands
for her daddy to save her.
“Peel the orange,
peel, peel the orange…”
She hovers, waiting:
not forming,
not peeling,
my hazel eyes crouched
in her sockets,
fingers twiddling,
feet primed to spring.
She is not as nimble
as the others,
neither as statuesque
nor graceful
as God deemed in His
perfect wisdom
to deny her.
They dance in time
while she stands still.
“Squeeze the orange,
squeeze, squeeze the orange!”
She rushes her favorite teacher,
a young woman of seventeen,
and squeezes her with all her might
as the rest of the little girls
run to catch up with her.
She knew what she was doing all along.
Now she is first
in the center
of a warm,
safe little world:
not as pretty,
or fast,
or gifted
as some of them…
But more beautiful than them all.
June 7, 2009
The Good, the Bad, and the Truth About Writers' Conferences
I have been to two (count them), yes, two writers' conferences, so to say my experience is limited is to say exactly how much I know about them. But I have some advice about the writers' conference, both good, and not so good, nonetheless.
Here's the short version: Save your money.
Here's the longer version: Save your money. Save your money. Save your money.
Now for the extended-dance-party-mix-version...
The Good: At both conferences I got to meet face-to-face with agents, editors (a.k.a. Book Doctors), and other, more successful authors. Meeting with agents in particular was a nerve-wracking experience comparable to asking a supermodel out on a date or meeting God with a guilty conscience (NOT because they were all that good-looking or all-powerful, but because they had your heart and/or your fate in their hands). Some of their advice I still carry with me to this day, along with my later, more or less, tragic epiphany; which brings me to the bad...
The Bad: I payed close to $300 smackeroos both times. I wish I had figured out something the first time and saved myself (and my wife) the money. See it dawned on me after every agent I talked to was interested in my book idea that EVERY SINGLE agent I talked to was interested in my book idea. EVERY SINGLE ONE. Is it because my book pitch was so brilliant, so off-the-charts original that they just HAD to see it? Umm, as much as I'd like to say that was the case, it wasn't. I puzzled this out after lunch with a bunch of other hopefuls who, amazingly enough, also got semi-enthusiastic requests from agents to see them strut their writing stuff. The difference being that they hadn't figured out yet (as I just had) that the agents were telling EVERYBODY that. Why? To keep us coming, is my guess.
So here's the ugly (a.k.a. the truth): The writing business is about making money from talented peoples' artistic endeavours. If you go to a conference, go for the advice, the perspective, the companionship of others who are striving to become successful in a business that doesn't care if you are or not. If you're going to get published, chances are that won't happen any more expeditiously (50 cents please) than if you were to query agents via snail mail (the Internet, apparently, is still against the majority of their religions).
Or maybe it's just me. Either way, keep the faith. It'll happen.
Promise.
Here's the short version: Save your money.
Here's the longer version: Save your money. Save your money. Save your money.
Now for the extended-dance-party-mix-version...
The Good: At both conferences I got to meet face-to-face with agents, editors (a.k.a. Book Doctors), and other, more successful authors. Meeting with agents in particular was a nerve-wracking experience comparable to asking a supermodel out on a date or meeting God with a guilty conscience (NOT because they were all that good-looking or all-powerful, but because they had your heart and/or your fate in their hands). Some of their advice I still carry with me to this day, along with my later, more or less, tragic epiphany; which brings me to the bad...
The Bad: I payed close to $300 smackeroos both times. I wish I had figured out something the first time and saved myself (and my wife) the money. See it dawned on me after every agent I talked to was interested in my book idea that EVERY SINGLE agent I talked to was interested in my book idea. EVERY SINGLE ONE. Is it because my book pitch was so brilliant, so off-the-charts original that they just HAD to see it? Umm, as much as I'd like to say that was the case, it wasn't. I puzzled this out after lunch with a bunch of other hopefuls who, amazingly enough, also got semi-enthusiastic requests from agents to see them strut their writing stuff. The difference being that they hadn't figured out yet (as I just had) that the agents were telling EVERYBODY that. Why? To keep us coming, is my guess.
So here's the ugly (a.k.a. the truth): The writing business is about making money from talented peoples' artistic endeavours. If you go to a conference, go for the advice, the perspective, the companionship of others who are striving to become successful in a business that doesn't care if you are or not. If you're going to get published, chances are that won't happen any more expeditiously (50 cents please) than if you were to query agents via snail mail (the Internet, apparently, is still against the majority of their religions).
Or maybe it's just me. Either way, keep the faith. It'll happen.
Promise.
May 28, 2009
So You Say You Want A Resolution
Writing a story with a viable beginning, middle, and end? If you are, kudos to you. If you've gotten stuck on the "good-idea-but-where-do-I-go-from-here-phase," well...
Okay, here's where I'll probably sound preachy, but I swear I'm really not. I DON'T think I'm a better writer than you. Heck, I don't even really know you, not on a name-to-name basis, anyway. But we DO have a lot in common. For one: a modicum of talent (and in your case, possibly much more). Also, and this next one is a doozy, so listen up: we're not famous for doing what we love (yet).
My sole intention here is to save you some trouble (in the hope the boost in my karma will work in my favor) by sharing my experiences thus far from the other side of wherever you are (and if you are in the midst of struggling with your craft, then these words are for you). I've been there, too (still am), just as, say Steven King, is looking back at some of us now (fondly, I hope). It's not that he's a better writer than you, necessarily. He's just luckier. We have the much more important thing in common with the Kings of the world: we love to tell a good story. As I've heard it put bluntly before: celebrities are just normal people with extraordinary jobs.
So please, don't despair. Just remember: do it for the love of it. No other reason will suffice.
Okay, here's where I'll probably sound preachy, but I swear I'm really not. I DON'T think I'm a better writer than you. Heck, I don't even really know you, not on a name-to-name basis, anyway. But we DO have a lot in common. For one: a modicum of talent (and in your case, possibly much more). Also, and this next one is a doozy, so listen up: we're not famous for doing what we love (yet).
My sole intention here is to save you some trouble (in the hope the boost in my karma will work in my favor) by sharing my experiences thus far from the other side of wherever you are (and if you are in the midst of struggling with your craft, then these words are for you). I've been there, too (still am), just as, say Steven King, is looking back at some of us now (fondly, I hope). It's not that he's a better writer than you, necessarily. He's just luckier. We have the much more important thing in common with the Kings of the world: we love to tell a good story. As I've heard it put bluntly before: celebrities are just normal people with extraordinary jobs.
So please, don't despair. Just remember: do it for the love of it. No other reason will suffice.
May 19, 2009
Where Do We Go From Here?
During a romantic(esque) scene of my current project, one of the characters tells his date, "It doesn't matter if nobody's around in the forest to hear the tree fall." To which she replies, "It matters to the tree."
That's what I'm talking about: anonymity versus meaning. Why do I write, and more importantly, why do you? I do it because it matters to me. I don't know why it matters, but it does. Maybe it's because I have something relevant to say. Maybe it's because I love to hear (or is it see?) myself represented in such a way that posterity bears out. Maybe I'm just delusional (or is it dismissive? You pick). All I know is that win or lose, if I someday have a million readers or just a very lonely one, it matters. It matters to me...
Make it matter to you, too.
That's what I'm talking about: anonymity versus meaning. Why do I write, and more importantly, why do you? I do it because it matters to me. I don't know why it matters, but it does. Maybe it's because I have something relevant to say. Maybe it's because I love to hear (or is it see?) myself represented in such a way that posterity bears out. Maybe I'm just delusional (or is it dismissive? You pick). All I know is that win or lose, if I someday have a million readers or just a very lonely one, it matters. It matters to me...
Make it matter to you, too.
March 26, 2009
Mission Statement
Hey you...
Yeah, you.
If you're an amateur, albeit talented, writer, then this is the place for you.
Don't believe me? I can relate. When it comes to places on the Internet for writers, I've been there, done that (not to mention the numerous pratfalls I've undertaken submitting work, going on epic quests for the holy grail (i.e. trying to secure an agent) at writers' conferences, and my attempts to get anyone within earshot to read and honestly critique my work, all the while trying to seem cool and aloof as my heart beat at 100 m.p.h. that they'd like me, they'd really like me.
This is not to say I haven't found some gems among my experiences thus far (more on that later on), but I've done a LOT of wheel spinning, been around the writer's block, and wasted HUGE spans of time (that would've been better spent honing my craft) searching for a way to break into the publishing biz. I've been to the other side, and now, I'm... "content" ("happy" would be grossly overshooting the mark) to share my experiences, past, present, and future, with all of you (and by "you," I mean the "you" who's reading this right now. All the other "yous" can jump in front of a literary bus, for all I care... Okay, I do care, hence the blogging, but I want you to know that whoever you are, you're hands down my favorite).
Soooo... Now that I've got your attention, where do we go from here?
I'll start (and end) with this: if you are a writer, I mean, believe it with every beat of your artistic little heart, I'm going to help you, and by helping you, I'm going to help me. "How?" you ask. By being honest about everything I know as it pertains to writing.
NOT that I'm some guru on the mountaintop (one glance at my writing credits thus far should quell any notion of that), but I want to get us back to the place we started from--that place we used to be when it occurred to us that we knew how to put a string of words down on the page and make it howl at the moon.
The desire to get published, to be recognized for our sustained efforts, can ruin that for a lot of us. It's discouraging. I realize this. We know we're good enough, but the quest for fame and fortune for our artistic endeavours has gotten in the way of the joy.
You remember the joy, don't you? That rush you used to feel doing what you love?
Well, I got mine back, baby. After everything I've done (and every misstep I've taken while doing it): two self-published novels, a few short stories, oodles of poetry, I'm back...
With a vengeance.
See, I lost my way trying to be a talented writer (by way of rewriting, recasting, retooling, over-thinking, over-analyzing, over-wroughting, and just plain overdoing my work), but then something happened, something akin to an epiphany: I remembered that I was in the first place all along. And so are you. Hence, the poem, The Bright Side below (a.k.a. My Mission Statement and not so gentle reminder why we're here).
So let's get back to it, shall we?
K.M.M.
Yeah, you.
If you're an amateur, albeit talented, writer, then this is the place for you.
Don't believe me? I can relate. When it comes to places on the Internet for writers, I've been there, done that (not to mention the numerous pratfalls I've undertaken submitting work, going on epic quests for the holy grail (i.e. trying to secure an agent) at writers' conferences, and my attempts to get anyone within earshot to read and honestly critique my work, all the while trying to seem cool and aloof as my heart beat at 100 m.p.h. that they'd like me, they'd really like me.
This is not to say I haven't found some gems among my experiences thus far (more on that later on), but I've done a LOT of wheel spinning, been around the writer's block, and wasted HUGE spans of time (that would've been better spent honing my craft) searching for a way to break into the publishing biz. I've been to the other side, and now, I'm... "content" ("happy" would be grossly overshooting the mark) to share my experiences, past, present, and future, with all of you (and by "you," I mean the "you" who's reading this right now. All the other "yous" can jump in front of a literary bus, for all I care... Okay, I do care, hence the blogging, but I want you to know that whoever you are, you're hands down my favorite).
Soooo... Now that I've got your attention, where do we go from here?
I'll start (and end) with this: if you are a writer, I mean, believe it with every beat of your artistic little heart, I'm going to help you, and by helping you, I'm going to help me. "How?" you ask. By being honest about everything I know as it pertains to writing.
NOT that I'm some guru on the mountaintop (one glance at my writing credits thus far should quell any notion of that), but I want to get us back to the place we started from--that place we used to be when it occurred to us that we knew how to put a string of words down on the page and make it howl at the moon.
The desire to get published, to be recognized for our sustained efforts, can ruin that for a lot of us. It's discouraging. I realize this. We know we're good enough, but the quest for fame and fortune for our artistic endeavours has gotten in the way of the joy.
You remember the joy, don't you? That rush you used to feel doing what you love?
Well, I got mine back, baby. After everything I've done (and every misstep I've taken while doing it): two self-published novels, a few short stories, oodles of poetry, I'm back...
With a vengeance.
See, I lost my way trying to be a talented writer (by way of rewriting, recasting, retooling, over-thinking, over-analyzing, over-wroughting, and just plain overdoing my work), but then something happened, something akin to an epiphany: I remembered that I was in the first place all along. And so are you. Hence, the poem, The Bright Side below (a.k.a. My Mission Statement and not so gentle reminder why we're here).
So let's get back to it, shall we?
K.M.M.
March 25, 2009
The Bright Side
A word to the Unwise:
What if we live in a world
where dreams go to die.
What if we have to face it and discover
that none of us are meant to be anybody.
That not one of us will
ever be president, a movie star, or a
famous person of any kind.
What if nobody like us wins,
much less earns, a million dollars.
What if that only happens to Them:
The Blessed.
The Lucky.
The Gifted with their perfect skin
and beautiful eyes.
There is still a bright side.
Even if I am a nobody, I am still kin
to the tireless Dreamers, in the eye
of a hurricane of heartbreak yet
to arrive.
I will not squander my unrequited destiny.
Better to perish in a
fool’s dream than to
live in armless reach
of paradise.
What if we live in a world
where dreams go to die.
What if we have to face it and discover
that none of us are meant to be anybody.
That not one of us will
ever be president, a movie star, or a
famous person of any kind.
What if nobody like us wins,
much less earns, a million dollars.
What if that only happens to Them:
The Blessed.
The Lucky.
The Gifted with their perfect skin
and beautiful eyes.
There is still a bright side.
Even if I am a nobody, I am still kin
to the tireless Dreamers, in the eye
of a hurricane of heartbreak yet
to arrive.
I will not squander my unrequited destiny.
Better to perish in a
fool’s dream than to
live in armless reach
of paradise.
