Four times today I started different posts. Four times I deleted them often after a sentence or two, sometimes after a couple of paragraphs. I am trying to use the emotional of reality in fiction writing, thinking that the feeling should come strong and clear when it’s from the knowledge of the soul.
To write it plain out, I’m halted by propriety, a sense of loyalty and natural inhibition.
To write it metaphorically, I get too lost in the game. Reality demands too much of this right now from one who strives for honesty and I am weary.
To write in imagery, I get too dramatic. It is so small when measured up against the troubles of the world.
To channel the disillusion and despair would be a good thing. Yet it’s still too close, too close to who I am. Or maybe I don’t really write in a way that opens up those feelings in a readable way, or maybe I need be the only reader and writer both and when it’s done I close the book. I cannot seem to write without questioning the purpose. Cannot stray from truth to twist it into something not of, but from me. It’s probably one of the hardest things, next to the proper use of semicolons, I’ve ever had to learn to do.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
“I cannot seem to write without questioning the purpose. Cannot stray from truth to twist it into something not of, but from me. It’s probably one of the hardest things, next to the proper use of semicolons, I’ve ever had to learn to do. ”
You’ve hit the stinking nail on its proverbial head! More good work gets ruined by the brain than anything else. It’s like cooking in the way that the fiddle-with-it impulse tends to ruin things.
}:)
P.S. “Out! Out! Damned brain!” the writing hand exclaimed.
Yes, I would agree with you, as you know; but there still seems to be the problem of structure not normally a part of the creative impulse, but a necessary part of story. Maybe this too becomes more natural as one reads and learns until it is an instilled instinctive trait.