write enough "Love Actually" scripts to sink the Titanic.
I'd write a "Gone with the Wind" or "The Fountainhead" classic every year.
I'd write love poems, tragedy, comedy and I'd be as prolific as Ben Elton with even more of an edge.
I'd write for the New Yorker. I'd write for Time. I'd write for The Boston Review.
I'd write the lyrics of songs that would be sung in a hundred years time.
I'd write essays of thoughts so philosophically profound, people would wonder if Emerson or Thoreau had reincarnated themselves via me.
I'd write children's books that J.K. Rowling would write the preface's for.
I'd write travel tales every bit as extraordinarily touching as those of Elizabeth Gilbert (and I'd be every bit as gorgeous too!).
I'd write stage plays so astonishingly insightful into the human condition, even George Bernard Shaw would rise from the dead to tip his hat.
If only I knew how to write!
If only I knew how to make clear the prose that resides in the mind of my Muse but which for me, resides as mere hints of shadows in phrase and syllable: just broken fragments, pieces of ideas and thoughts, juicy hints of poetic genius, swooshing about, unable to be grasped or seen clearly enough to snatch onto the page or remain there.
There is a marked anxiousness in the Spirit's desire to write frantically all the potential of the universe onto the page under my hand. Alas, but my hand hovers frozen in stasis, and my mind which is controlling this ''twixt heaven and hell' state of play, is grinding gears, frustratingly obfuscated to the very things Spirit knows to be truly there for the writing.
Muse plays and cavorts with my moods. I feel her knocking at my spirit door seeking entrance but if I fling open the door, I can hear her sparkling, cynical laughter as she floats down the passages of my thought processes while I chase after her, silently screaming for that which she was hinting to tell while the door was 'ere closed.
If only I knew how to write!
To feel the unhindered quality of text pouring forth in casual, easy rhythm; the words moving on the page like living entities all collectively related to each other by the blood ties of an effortless syntax so strong they form a genealogy of prosaic providence...always imaginative... that has a reach throughout all time.
If I only knew how to write and write WELL; so freakishly, so insanely, so unequivocally well.
My blog would reach millions and not just a few. Even Seth Godin and Tony Robbins would want to read me. I'd be able to teach the world through the musings that would arise from the very core of my soul and my "Genius" would be engaged with my Ultimate Purpose all combining into a synergy of limitless potential for change and growth, a constructive coherence...for the better...for everyone...
If I only knew how to write... Oprah would mark my words.
If only I knew how to write.