I click idly on the hyperlink with my morning coffee.
And there it is. Three shorts paragraphs. Compliments and insights into things I didn’t even know he thought about.
MindReader writes differently to me. He does not get up in the middle of the night, and, hunched over the computer, produce frenzied blogs only to be filed away in Word documents. His writing is more measured, thoughtful, with careful themes running together.
He does not update his blog often. It is, he says, when he gets a spare moment. I think secretly he is one of those people who thinks online journal is an oxymoron. He is, naturally, a storyteller, but he is best listened to, a drink in one hand whilst the other wildly gesticulates.
I read eagerly, blushing at the detail of it. It was posted over a week ago, I notice, smirking. MindReader has not mentioned it, knowing I would read it someday and having the self restraint to let me discover it privately.
It is not just that it is about me – us – or that it is well-constructed, or even that I suspect he writes better than me. It is in the faults: he can’t spell embodies. His sentences are run on and too often do not make sense.
This is where the beauty is: he sidesteps the language and structure that constrain, and conveys a more poignant meaning through almost-nonsense, ramblings where your eyes glaze over and the startling, sudden metaphors jump out at you.
And no – I won’t post the link .