It seems my devastatingly interesting tale is badly planned. As a result, I’ve decided to add a little tension by further postponing the conclusion to this week’s dramatic episode—so—Angels the IV tomorrow. Besides, tomorrow is Sunday and you can read it and feel all warm and fuzzy inside on the Sabbath.
It is true about the anti-climactic nature of my narrative. I began with a truly harrowing beginning, but by the fourth blog posting had told you the end of the story—that I would live. So much for keeping you hanging. Nope. None of my readers sit on the edges of their seats. There is no climactic sense of the dramatic as I get zapped with radiation, no mind-boggling chemotherapy, no endless and painful torture. Such literary elements as plot, foreshadowing, and conflict are missing. I’m already married and have a child, so where’s the romantic element? My evil archenemy, Mr. Cancer, has proven a dudd. The whole thing is a sham, a misrepresentation! And just to continue this evil trend of falsehood, I will hereby fib to you all by apologizing abjectly for my complete and utter failure.
Here is a graph, showing not a mountain range, but the supposed climax of my story. The red line looks somewhat like the graph on my Stats page showing the number of hits and thus the interest of my readership. The red line is my actual story line. (Not that I want the red line to get higher—that might indicate my life getting worse...) The blue is what I think I remember learning about how a book/story should be written in high school English class. Notice the contrast.
