And so, once again, we embark upon the humbling endeavor of expressing our minds. The most difficult creative task I’ve ever embarked on? Fiction. I can’t find my imagination for words. I’m hoping someday it just begins. Maybe one day I’ll wake up and remember everything. Fiction is everywhere. The books that humans read. Millions of books they read and give to their friends to read who give to their friends. We lose our days and lives in pages and pages of stories…that really aren’t stories at all. They are no less real than the air we breath or the food we eat. Even the most far-fetched of the best stories are undeniably real. Do I mean this as an overreaching metaphor for how to write, or to emphasize realism as the best avenue for writing a story? I don’t know. Fiction is still a mystery I am trying to solve. It doesn’t come natural. I still think too much. I shouldn’t have to talk myself through it. Slow down. People take time to think. Too much wit is unbelievable. Not particularly good jokes add realism? Bad jokes are boring. Pauses should be staggered in occurance and duration, both the result of internalized thought and external circumstance. NEVER drop character. Subtle alliteration a must.
This isn’t real. Fiction is real. As real (or more) as its counterpart non-fiction. Has it always been? What isn’t in some way designed to entrap you, enthrall you, entrance your mind?
Belief makes things real. For every sentence you write, ask yourself if you believe it. People like to think that the way they think the world should be are their beliefs. “I believe all illegals should be deported. I believe abortion is wrong. I believe the world needs more love.” These are not beliefs. Beliefs are the most intrinsic, most centered of human thoughts not worth dying for. They are not worth writing a letter to your elected officials nor voting for. A belief is the glue between you and the world. Without them the world inside and outside of our minds ceases to exist. There is a distinction here, vital and completely overlooked. Certain things are forced upon you. Others, up for grabs. But there is wisdom in knowing its nothing more than a choice you’ve made. If your mind vanished…what else would? Would anyone notice the supplemental absence of what you created?