June 13, 2011
I haven’t been writing at all for the past month. Maybe more. What’s more, I haven’t even felt like writing lately. This is unusual for me.
…no. That’s a lie. I feel like writing, but I feel obligated to work on this book before I move on to something else. I’ve even started drawing a bit as an alternate creative outlet. I suck at it, but I kind of like drawing again, even though I really do suck at it.
There’s something that’s been eating at me, though. I’ve started thinking about why other people write and then why I write. Most people, it turns out, want to tell their stories. In some form or another, they want to share what they’re going through or their perspective on a certain topic, or something like that. I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t want to do that on some level, but telling my story? No. That doesn’t interest me so much.
So why, then, do I write? Well, the short answer (and the answer I’ve given in past letters of intent) would be to gather my thoughts, to collect some rattling remnants of my brain and put them down in an organized fashion, a record of my musings and imagination. That’s why I’m writing right now. I need to answer this question and the best way to do that is for me to write to myself.
Yet, I still don’t know why it is I write the fiction I do. What do I aim to contribute to this world? I think… maybe what it comes down to, is that I want people to consider something different, look at things in a different perspective than their own. On one level, I want to entertain. I want people to laugh or chuckle a bit. But more than anything, I’ve always LOVED making people feel uncomfortable. It’s a sign of who people really are, when you take them outside of their comfort zone, getting them to consider for a moment children who want their grandmothers to just go away and die, or dead zombie babies trying to eat their mother’s flesh (only their teeth haven’t come in yet), or what it would be like to have another man make a pass at you (say, if you’re a straight male). That discomfort, to me, is the most delicious nectar life can bring.
Why is it okay to eat chickens but not horses?
Why is “self-sacrifice” in the name of one’s faith or nation more acceptable than suicide as a statement of one’s own discontent?
Why does there seem to be so little effort to research communication with animals but so much effort to project human characteristics onto them?
If writing is a way to gather my own thoughts, then maybe writing is a way to answer these questions, or at the very least speculate on them. I don’t think I’m alone in wanting to think about stuff. And if I am, well, I guess I’m just that one weird guy wanting to take everyone out of their comfort zone.
Good vs. evil is boring. Let’s move on to conflicts that don’t always get resolved and don’t always make sense.