So here I am, stuck in the middle of a road that runs all directions at once. I’m nearly done with my novel, and the prospect of finishing is looming large above an inescapable horizon. I’ve learned a lot about writing in the last month, and a lot about what motivates me and inspires me. There’s a big difference between what you love to write, and what you want to write.
My book, for example, is a sci-fi book. It’s fun, it’s interesting, and it takes all the imagination I have to keep it going and imbue it with life and make it real. But I’m also becoming more aware that fantasy, sci-fi, these are things that, try as we might to fight reality, don’t exist. And because of this, there will always be a disconnect with the reader. A part of them that will be unable to connect with what you’re writing. Because it’s never happened to them. It’s never happened to anybody. They don’t understand it.
We do understand our own lives though. Or at least, we’re familiar with how they work and what happens and our own mistakes and screw ups and successes and triumphs and heartbreaks. That is all well and good, we know that stuff. And the more I realise this, the more it seems like that’s the kind of story I should be writing. Because I feel it, inside, that there is this truth behind the curtain of daily living that wants to be captured.
Hemingway captured it, for sure. I’m reading Bukowski right now, he got it too. Bukowski is like if Hemingway had written smut. It’s dark, it’s dirty, it’s gritty. I don’t honestly know if I like it, but it’s fascinating, and it’s real. That’s the kind of story I want to write. Something that grabs you by the balls and says no, this is what it’s about, go ahead and try and deny me but I’ll be here whether you like it or not.
Anyways. I’m writing, I’m reading, and living and learning. I’ve started going sailing recently. It’s fun.