Everyone knows that literary fiction is the best form of fiction and that popular books are written by mere hacks spouting garbage for the unwashed, illiterate masses who can barely understand a story, let alone a sentence that has taken 12 hours of deliberation. As such I am rewriting the whole of Blackwing into a more literary style. Here’s a taster.
SOMEBODY, maybe nobody but possibly somebody, warned them that the encroachment of oddity blemished silent minds, as the wind whispers a verisimilitude of moroseness across the physiology of man. The sympathisers, were they that, or not, begotten, aloof, left nothing behind (being only solipsist entities within an echoing multiverse of possibility?), but an empty apartment and a few volumes of illegal verse, like a divorced college professor in a log cabin, pining eternal for the scent of jasmine on Mrs Mugotti’s silk headscarf. Mellifluous somnabulance inspired generations to galaxiousness.
A half-devoured collation, ransacked voids of the soul. Entwined in longing, those pitiful wretcherati knotted together the feeble encumbrance of humankind and despaired east into the Misery. Bygone days, O! bygone days of misanthropic yore, when a uniform caressed my homo-sapien configuration, the illustrious captain of men, the marshal who reminded me of the man my ex-wife left me for, languished tales across the wind to me of the three natures of consciousness that willingly saunter into the Misery, like the remnants of my writing career before I became a college professor: the desperate, the stupid, and the greedy. What tragedy transpires to dither man’s will on such folly is beknownst only to Venus, her watchful transcendence shining across sunsets like a frog in a bath.
Or you could read actual Blackwing, it’s probably better. Read what you enjoy. Don’t let anyone tell you that one form of art is better than another.