Oh Fiction! Illusive ordered make believe. Swinging from sense to no-sense but not too much no-sense because that’s just nonsense and nobody understands that unless you’re one of those coffee binging, assorted mild-psychoative drug taking kind;
extracting inspiration from random abstractions.
“Picasso is a realist like HD tv.”
Not really but ok.
Where am I going with this!
I feel fiction has defeated me. The way a large mountain defeats the climber who turns around and heads back home to safety and reason. And freely wiggling toes.
From now on I approach fiction like a jazz musician. A spontaneous dance with chance.
Outside of that; I’ll flirt with the unreal in the field of Creative non-Fiction.
Why is Fiction so hard? Coherent fiction, good fiction, even if it’s the repetitive cosy detective kind. Predictable yet emotive. I’ll take anything as long as it doesn’t bore me while I’m making it.
I enjoy a good Law&Order episode. Old or new. Drama at its most reliable. But perhaps it isn’t meant to be or it’s hard because it’s complicated (or cannot be formulated and reproduced like cow milk).
Either way (or neither way), I feel an incredible failure for not cracking this field like my idol Garcia Marquez, that shining literary prosian.
Quitter Blogger Out!