Failing fiction

I never usually title a blog before writing it. It seems inevitable today. Like Dexter, I love alliterations – my favourite technique in poetry as well as prose.

The less I write, the more I forget. I’m currently sitting next to the non-fiction section with books categorized as “How to write different types of genres.” I dread looking at any of those, even though I should for the benefits of a recap.

Since my last blog post (a month ago?) I promised fiction, didn’t I? I still break all the promises I make for myself. I guess I have to take my mind back to university to awaken those ancient sentiments that fuel my creative side. It was there a second ago, thanks to the power of this current song sung in a minor key. Now I remember how to transcend an idea into life, except that I am not doing it. And this is my problem. The lack of focus disables deductive reasoning and one’s ability to process emotions. The result is bottling things up every day until you fall to pieces by the end of the week. Some people can bottle things up for years, so instead of letting it out bit by bit, they build a monster inside their chests, a monster made of anger, pain, fear, and whatnot. I’m not strong enough to become that kind of monster, but I’m impressed by people who are.

My former tutors used to help me build stronger plots and stories, yet they were intrigued by my characters, who often were broken entities and had monster personalities. In short, weak people with dysfunctional social skills or professionals with the ability to blend in without blinking an eye. Everyone needs support to balance their emotions in one way or another, and I chose fiction when I was eleven. That’s my healthy way of channelling urges and filter disappointments. Nothing unutterable needs to be spoken but written through fiction. Once you’ve filtered your water, it’s safe to drink. Unlike Dexter, I never had a mentor when I was a kid, yet I was reasonable. I found a way, and I must not abandon it. To speak has always been latent anxiety of mine, which used to be a lot more visible in the past than now. Sometimes when looking at a chirpy eight-year-old kid, I forget that I’m no longer the same height as them, and yet the sight of them reflects a hazy outline of who I never was. Yes, I’m jealous of everyone and everything, particularly kids. I would swallow them all like Cronos if I could.

Who knows, without fiction, I would have probably shot all my classmates – those little racist fucks.

The shoulder to cry on was an imaginary friend that only existed on paper. I shall call him I.D.

I.D. shed light on all the unutterable. He gave me observatory power, the ability to see the big picture and to transcribe them into written words. I admit that I can’t describe mountains, shapes and buildings–landscapes in general. But I can describe people’s biggest fears because that’s the only thing I’m interested in.

I’m interested in you; what keeps you up at night. What’s your relationship with your dad? Not that I care, but I.D. needs to be fed with this information. And in return, I will give you a memorable life on paper. Now, aren’t we all happy? All we have to do is untie some knots and plunge headlong into the white sea. Unfortunately, I haven’t been untying anything, as all I want is to jump right in, which, of course, is not a well-directed action, and it’s a clear sign of impatience and despair, all triggered by restlessness and a lack of focus.

I identified I.D. through Stephen King a few years ago. The awareness that I.D. has been there throughout the writing has helped remove the sense of loneliness in my head. I think we all feel similar, but everyone has different needs. Some have more needs, more than others. I believe that if you work hard for it, your efforts will be rewarded. Right now, I’m not working hard; therefore, I’m failing fiction. Something or someone needs to strum the right chord in my ears. Then all I need to do is focus; it’s as simple as that. Why I tend to complicate things I don’t know. If I feel nothing, I feel nothing. I can’t just force fiction onto paper. Am I that bored with myself?

So far, the white sea has morphed me into a cardiologist, a male clone, a basket case, a killer, a vigilante, and 100 different types of Ophelias. I’m not sure who I want to be. Perhaps a teacher or an older man.

I’m working on two stories. One is about an older couple where the wife craves anal sex. Instead of fulfilling her request, the husband chooses to drown his sorrows at the bar. Someone tell me I’ve read too much Palahniuk, Wallace and Cave. Not to mention Bukowski, Ellis and Wilde. Even I’m excited about what’s going to happen.

So here’s another blog where I continually repeat myself. And I will continue to do so until I finish my next piece of goddamn fiction!

 

 

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