Unholy Alliance; Me and the Written Word
I have a strange relationship with the written word.
Okay, for anyone who’s been to my house and seen the sheer volume of books and magazines that “decorate” the walls, tables, chairs and floors, well, let’s just say that this is a bit of an understatement. I have thrown out one book, that I can remember, ever. Just one. And, that was a Tony Robbins book! It takes something monumental for me to sort through my pile of “keeper” magazines to find things that I realistically want to keep and read or save for long-term reference and get rid of the rest. Truly, I revere the written, and more specifically the printed, word. Oddly, I haven’t been reading that much lately, even though I still can’t get rid of old books, even my ex-wife’s books which hold no interest for me.
Ironically, that strange reverence for books and story, in particular, makes it hard for me to write. At least, to write something other than my blog. The blog is easy, because there aren’t any rules, to speak of, and any story is incidental. Okay, I’ll grant that my writing for the blog wasn’t always very good. I mean, eight years ago, I was pretty stiff and stilted and, well, mostly, boring. Maybe I ranted a little more than I do now but I don’t think too many people were particularly motivated by my screeds.
Writing an actual story, real or fictional, is a whole different thing, though. My goal with the blog was, originally, far, far different from what it’s become. Honestly, I originally just wanted to have a way to regularly use all the right industry buzz words to maximize my search engine optimization. But, along the way, something happened and my blog changed along with my writing. But, it’s easy because I don’t think of all the things I should be doing. I just sit down and write whatever crazy thing comes to mind. In my mind, it just doesn’t matter much, so the writing flows out naturally, and, most days, almost effortlessly. So, why can’t I do that with my fiction?
Well, the bottom line is, I don’t know. Somehow, I get all caught up with how I used to write fiction, so effortlessly and still at a semi-professional level. But, that was fifteen years ago. Really, it’s been almost fifteen years since I wrote often enough to be at anything close to that level. Foolishly, I want to be able to pick right up where I left off fifteen years ago, before my main career really got started and before I got married and divorced and before… Yes, before the cancer. All those things changed me, changed how I see the world, my life, my writing. Somehow, it made everything more important and left less room for mediocrity. And, somehow, it made everything I wrote less… Less beautiful, less brilliant, less true. The blank page, the empty screen, has become my enemy, a battlefield for the purity of my soul. I know, a bit melodramatic, but still true. At least, true enough to make my fiction taste less like marzipan fantasy dipped in chocolate fudge and more like ashes with a side of bitter, unrealized dreams.
So, how to change that… I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. Why do you think I bought a camera?
Stay tuned. Later this week, a review of Tropic Thunder and those music sites and stuff I’ve been promising. Oh, and in a week or so, I’ll have a guest post on another blog. More on that as it unfolds.
