CXLI.
November 6, 2012 § Leave a Comment
It’s always disconcerting how the ability to publish our thoughts publicly also amplifies the volume of those so naively impassioned.
If you tout around your opinions in a profile status post, you should be prepared for a discussion.
Nothing left to say on this. Any opposition to the above statements is not worth the amount of effort required to refute it.
However, my posting these sentences onto someone’s Facebook profile devolves into the following responses:
“Merp”
“Derp”
“Oh goodness”
“Omgggg it was just a status”
because when we cannot utilize our intellect to form coherent words and convey true meanings, we will mimic a dumb noise or add extra letters to further prove that we are incapable of genuine discussion.
CXVI.
June 14, 2012 § 2 Comments
Writing fiction is one of the worst necessary choices I had to make. It nurtured me through periods of alienation. It also alienated me from those who wanted to nurture. It rescued me from despair but it distracted me from focusing on what could have made me money. It created for me a home to live in when I felt homeless, but it also became that home I could never stay in for very long. It became a chore to upkeep, to maintain, and it grew into a monster I couldn’t tame; it became an ugly growth I could not expose, but I had already removed its wrappings;
I had unveiled what I am, what I do.
Writing fiction brought me here, to this place, to this terrible June, where I’m fretting over resumes and completing a degree and now this trip to see a man who they say is my father. It has put me in this uncomfortable position from where I dispense only the ugliest of truths; it has become a burden for me to bear and unload it here for a measly 4,400-something page hits. It has me wishing for the dumbest things: fame, recognition, praise, controversy;
it has me defending myself to those who do not believe in this road trip I am undertaking, those who believe in book trilogies adapted to movies, both forms so wasteful but profitable; these enemies of mine believe in what the Screen shows; they believe in what the latest PR claims;
they do not believe in me, what I am, what I do.
Writing fiction has brought me to this blog that I have considered deleting now about 116 times…but each time I sit to do it I instead begin typing
as if it’s going to help the pain of disappointment subside,
as if I am committed to a monster worthwhile.
