I now stand over the anvil of writing sweating, eyes open, hammering away at the sword of words. I heat it in the coals of passion, tinker with the hammer of revision, and cool it in the waters of reflection. I still have a long while to go as I improve my work, but in this case, the journey is just as important as the goal. I am fervent in this business now that I can look beside me and see that writing was my ally all along, not some chore forced upon me by the evolution of man.
Frankenstein cannot admit his sins and thus remains silent in the creature’s reign of terror. He goes back and forth blaming himself and then the creature, but are they not the same? The creature was a monster by sight, but Frankenstein was a monster by soul.
