l i f e
bitch
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christopher@30seconds.org
With respect to prose I don't have much to say tonight. Not that that is unusual, but it strikes me so, because everywhere I turn these days someone is running a commentary on something or feels they have something grandiose to add to a fractional moment of a fleeting thought...and they then go and call that by it's slightly overused name of fiction.
Okay.
Why am I any different, it sure feels like a commentary. I can almost feel myself climbing onto the pedestal now. Writing just for the sake of it, like people who talk just to hear their voices.
No, that trap isn't for me. I've been less than inspired lately, but even that can't explain why I don't, can't, have no need at the moment, to write.
The other night the house next door to me blew up. Yes, it really did. Was I inspired. I felt lucky. I felt like shit for being depressed. For complaining, but I did not then and don't now feel inspired. So what. A house burned down.
Need I remind you all that I too have lost a house in recent years to natural disaster, and that really didn't inspire me either. It forced me to move, but other than that...nada.
So what does move me?
Instead of attacking others for having something to say why don't I take a look at myself and see what it is that moves me. What makes me write. Why do I go through periods of drought (not block mind you) and empathy. Why do I find myself so often coming up empty, after just having been full of thoughts and patterns and the most wondrous things.
Dreams.
They play a role. When I find a good book I detract. When I sleep well after reading and dream, it detracts. My ideas breed in the comfort of sleep and I...I am sated. And that's what it's all about, me.
Satisfying my need for a story. A good yarn. Well sometimes the best told stories are the ones in real life I can only see by experience, getting out, living. Sometimes the best stories are inside my head and I need to write them to see what they look like, distance myself so I can enjoy it, and finally pass it on to others so I can at last really gain the ultimate satisfaction, that of a reader's pleasure.
Buy hey, who do I kid?
See, when I dream the story is told and except for rare exceptions won't be told again. When I go out my desires are fulfilled in pint size glasses. Lately I've been doing a lot of both. So if it seems I've not much to say those are two reasons. Then, there is the third. The tangible. Paper and pen. The physical elements known to every writer. Elements a keyboard cannot replace. And so lately there pages of paper stacking up I've no heart to type, but they are indeed here. Indeed.
So maybe you've quit reading by now. I've bored you enough. You've scrolled down here and for what? Well, if you leave now it won't surprise me. Hell this sites been up quite awhile now and I've received two emails from those I don't already know. Important. Maybe. Maybe not. Important to me. It must be or I wouldn't have brought it up, now would I. I have a selfish attraction to seeing others gratified via me. Yeah, I do. But couple that with some very strange insecurities and you have one volatile potion. Had enough yet? Good. Maybe you'll leave.
Or...you could see what's next.
goodnight 7.8.98
