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 in prose.

The less I write, the more I forget. I’m currently sitting next to the non-fiction section with books categorised 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 entry (a month ago?) I promised fiction, didn’t I? I still break all the promises I make for myself. I guess I have to bring my mind back to university just to awaken those ancient sentiments that used to fuel the creative side of me. 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 his emotions. The result is bottling things up every day till you fall to pieces by the end of the week. There are indeed people, who are able to 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 and fear and what not. I am not strong enough to become that kind of monster, but I am impressed by people who are.

All my former tutors know that I don’t have a strong sense for plots and stories, but for characters, who are broken entities, monster personalities or even psychopaths. 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 his emotions in one way or another and I’ve chosen fiction since I was 11 – a 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, and yet I was reasonable. I found a way and I must not abandon it. To speak has always been a latent anxiety of mine, which used to be a lot more visible in the past than now. Sometimes when looking at a chirpy 8-year old kid I forget that I am no longer the same height as he, and yet the sight of him reflects a hazy outline of who I never was. Yes, I am 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 cannot describe mountains, shapes and buildings, but I can describe people’s biggest fears, because that’s the only thing I’m interested in – nothing else.

I’m interested in you, what keeps you awake at night and 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 both 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 is 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 time of writing has helped to remove the sense of loneliness in the mind. I think this is in all our minds, 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 paid. And right now I am not working hard and thus I am failing fiction. Something or someone needs to strum the right chord in my ears. Then all I have to do is focus; it’s as simple as that. Why I have a tendency to complicate things I don’t know. If I feel nothing, I feel nothing. I can’t just force fiction onto paper. In other words, I’m bored of 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. Right now I’m not sure what I want to be. Perhaps a teacher or and old man.

I’m currently working on two stories; the one that has most of my attention is the one with an older couple describing the wife craving anal sex. Instead of having any sex 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 am excited of 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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