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Monday, January 17, 2005
march of the pigs
Was reading my someday-to-be-novel, called tentatively "Somewhere Out There." Pretty good. It's reawakened a lot feelings that were a part of me then, that've died now, but've been reawoken. Interesting how easily the thing flows, too. I could see it being a novel. Straight-out, with a bit of sharpening up, but not too much - I've never been a slave to perfection, I hope to never put on those chains. Rather, I'm a slave to flaws - flaws make the flawless.
I want to finish this novel by the end of this year. That's my goal. I've got a lot of time till then. Plan to get it published, edited, etc., if need arises.
It will probably end up being about nothing. It'll probably be breaking the rules of a conventional novel. It'll probably be hated by a lot of the literary community, but loved by others, by those who have their hearts set like mine with writing.
I've a more imaginative, over-spanning, spontaneous mind. A mind that cannot be held in by doors, even doors that are locked. I simply jiffy open my way in. I creep without a creak like a good hinge. I hate rules, I hate abiding by them. I hate authority. I spit in its face, but what I spit in ends up being authority's reflection in the water made by those who have cried because of this world's treacherous lies. Only if we'd all arise as one and let destruction loose from hell. The devil may have horns, but destruction has the fire.
There's different types of writers. There's no certain words to label these types of writers. Only general laygrounds. I'm more anal explulsive. I spittle the shit down, it lands, if I like it I keep it. If it's decent to me I let it stay on the page, a shit masterpiece. If some of it's dripped I take a piece of toilet paper and wipe away. If it's mishappen and grotesque in a way that doesn't appeal to me, I flush it down, through the pipes and to the excrement dump.
Some other writer might be anal retentive. He might take his shit out of the toilet and take out a knife and carve that sucker into shape. He might keep his shit, his words, and perfect it. And clean it of all baterias, viruses, syndromes, ills, anything above all detrimental. Until what lay before him was his idea of a shit masterpiece.
Whatever, wherever, however, the job of writing gets done. To me a catharsis of sorts, and a self-memento and self-explainer, to others whatever others find writing to be. Just don't mix your poo/ belief of writing with my poo. I like my way of writing where it is, and what I think it is, because it's proven to work for me and do things right. You keep at yours.
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