Novel and poetry

There’s a strange perverseness of novel writing that I instinctively reject. The lack of satisfaction in trying to write something that seems sincere and attractive to others both holds a key to what happiness and pleasure is and a seeming commitment to keep it out of one’s reach by celebrating others in an entirely unsatisfying manner. That’s my perception of a novel. The manner of which a novel might transcend that would be a commitment to writing for the pleasure of writing. The feminine myth to me seems to be a woman who rejects confines and challenges God for friendship. As much as I might be inclined to view rejection of reality for a safe seeming lie might appeal to my independent sense of contempt, it is the end result of how a woman tends to intrigue the best part of me that shows that the journey is a lie and the destination of being divine is what matters. Venus intrigues me because of a sense of satisfaction I get from just doing whatever the hell I want and everything working out in my favor. That’s the nature of Venus and why I love her because that’s me too. I have that naturally. Her divinity is present in my success and my divinity is present in just my ability to live and enjoy life. Her journeys and myths are filled with divine and vulgar stories. But that isn’t who she is. That’s what she overcame. Who she is is who I am friends with. That consistent feeding off of her divinity and her feeding off of my divinity. But the novel is still something that is not that. That’s why I tend to write poetry, not novels. I can write a few scribbles now and again but I don’t enjoy sitting down and writing a novel as much, and yet that seems to be what I’m going to do. I don’t mind choosing my own challenges because then the hurdles are mundane. A novel is budgeting and poetry has a bit of insanity of pleasure and death attached to it that can build but not keep it built. I’m going to write a novel with that in mind.