In my mind, it's magnificent. It seems sprawling but my ideas surreptitiously intermingle with one another before you realise what is happening and all of a sudden you're three pages into something new, something marvellous, and you didn't even notice my sleight of prose.
In my imagination, my words are eloquent, my extended thick descriptions are no longer than necessary and my teasing out of ideas is poetic, muscular, deft. You, my reader, are on a set course through a deep space of my own writing but it's so effortless it seems as though you are adrift. Peaceful. Punctuated by flares of excitement like supernovas as thoughts shift into place before your eyes. What I have noted are the stars surrounding you, a nebulous network of brilliance that you dip into, move between.
Yes, and in my mind it illuminates me as well as you. Things become clear as they pour out of my fountain pen or assume their place in the sentences on my screen. Each word, a small step towards the final word count which will turn out to be the perfect number to contain this majestic work.
This is my thesis in my mind. It is endlessly encouraging to me in periods like this when the vastness and intricacy of my ideas seem far beyond my capabilities to shape into one coherent body. I breathe this hope in the midst of my frustration, trusting that my persistence will lead to the eventual realisation of holding it, a bound, finished book in my hands.
What else can I do but keep on? Keep on dreaming as well as writing.