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.

word gains 1

I know that when they sit there and they read the words that I have put down that they are not reading the story, they are reading me. It is good to sometimes have the distance of anonymity between you and your readers. If every described suicide, every murderer, and every zany idea expressed reflects on you then how can anyone get used to the shifting geography of what you are? Where does the truth of your survive?

I know that when some people think of me they think of a sad fiction; a tale that spins out from the impetus of a tear-drop lost amongst raindrops falling in a puddle and sending out ripples. Do they imagine me sat there on the edge of the curb watching trash floating away to an unspecified somewhere? Writing haiku post-it notes that I fold into cranes and set upon the flow. I am a watercolour under the spreading stain of spilt ink – a vision used as a blotter.

I try to imbue some of the passages I write with the quality of sunshine but they are few and far between. It is strange – the mood of my fiction is generally no indication of where I am at mentally or spiritually but it is often taken as such. People read the poetry and make that into metaphor and idea and miss the obvious messages. These are the things that happen to a writer I suppose. Strung between the intention and the interpretation; though put like that it doesn’t sound much different from everyone else’s life, though it represents another layer of the onion perhaps. Are you trying to communicate or disappear behind a equivocation? Are you playing word games?

The bad things are taken, turned around in the head, chewed over, purposely made more sharp and then left there for people to cut themselves on. The good things are polished, held up to the light, flashed at people like a momentary brilliance of sunshine bouncing off a window, and then spirited away. We glory in the shadows – they are the playground in which we exercise our minds. It is inevitable that this can colour the world.

Sat hunched over the keyboard, all the pieces of literature I have read, all the films I have watched, all the paintings I have enjoyed, all the music I have listened to, pressing behind the filter of my mind’s eye and trying to escape. It all blends together, ricochets off the events of the day that are prominent in my short term memory and ends up in whatever twisted form I wish to call the story I am working on. Always a different story – always the same story. I drink coffee, surf the internet, read, listen to tunes – all of this going on as I write. It is an act of chemistry – a living process.