word gains 2

You post the first piece that you construct to try and illustrate the difference between the writer and that written as a piece of fiction and it is mistaken for a non-fiction piece describing your state of mind. You sit and you smile at the irony in the way the piece is received. You are grateful but wonder if it is ever at all possible for those reading to divorce things which seem that they might be true and come from a true place from an exercise in fiction which you use to creatively illustrate a position some writer’s find themselves in?
You fold the event into the story and wonder whether this will blur the lines between the fiction you have created and the reality the reader’s have constructed for themselves, or whether it will merely act to reinforce their notion that what they are reading are the true thoughts of the person writing the piece instead of seeing them for what they are: the writings of a fictional character.
The shift in narrative voice may provide some confusion which you can use to knock people off balance. A writer writing about a writer wondering about writing – mirrors abound and cast reflection at reflection; two flints sparking to create something else … something of a denser nature; something at once more self-conscious and secretly less real.
If you allow your fictions to more closely echo your life which one shifts on its axis most? Which one surrenders its solidity and becomes a bit more insubstantial? If it is your life which grows more fluid and people see you as just an extension of your fiction, how far can you push the script in an effort to sculpt your reality? If it is your fiction which moves to accommodate your life then does your life suffer because the fiction seems to exist in a parasitic relationship, drawing directly off of the events of your life? Can you live if no barrier appears to exist?
People expect you to be a monster. People expect you to be a hero. People discard the real you as a front when you offer it to them – they think you are just pretending to be normal; that you really are as fucked up as the things you write. They find out you are normal and they see it as somehow damaging the authenticity of the words you put on the page. What had seemed realistic now seems made-up. The world shifts uncomfortably on it’s axis. In the beginning was the word, the spoken word, then came the written word, then came debate. Once we had picked up the masks we didn’t know how to put them down.

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