I have it in my head that I will become a writer. It is a good thing to do, writing, an act of pure creation to make from nothing whole worlds of the mind, to paint pictures more real and visceral than any painting that a man could cobble together with brush and paint on canvas.
Writing is one of the most beautiful things that a person can do, but it requires discipline and strength, willingness to give up time that could be spent doing other things. I would say better things, but there is little better. Running perhaps because it strengthens the body, cooking because it feeds the finite machine that is the body, the body that is the origin of all creativity.
But even writing has it’s limits, and those limits are the limits of the individuals who do the writing. Over the last few weeks I have been writing a story, one still without a name. That story has been a thinly veiled subconscious view of my life, played out by a character that is not me, but close enough to me to be not easily discernible from me, or at least an older version of me.
The me before I quit drinking. And frankly I do not like it, and I do not approve of it. The story, while a treasure trove of creativity, is nevertheless not to my liking. So I am going to delete it, and write something more truly autobiographical. If I am going to tell a compelling story about me dammit, I am going to do it in my voice, not with some made up voice and made up stories, when the real thing is a great deal more interesting.
The point of writing is to tell a story, a compelling story that others want to read. Reality is compelling to me, a great deal more compelling than the story that I have been writing. That bothers me a bit, if only because I could not outdo the real world in creativity.
More fiction is going to be written, and in the spot where the fiction I was writing currently sits. And it will be better fiction than what is there now. But for the moment I am going to relent, allow for the fact that I had made a rookie mistake as far as what I was writing here, thinly veiled semi-autobiographical crap, and write some actual autobiography in the story of the month for February.
And I apologize for the crap that I wrote there.