Creative Writing 101

Still not dead. Still writing sometimes. Either this is the first real evidence of my insanity or a somewhat decent take on the philosophy behind creative writing. 

To work in creative writing, in storytelling, you have to be able to access lives. Not just be capable of crafting a character, but a whole life. Building fictional spaces can’t be where your work stops, you need to experience those fictional spaces in every possible way.

Characters can’t know they exist to fill archetypes, can’t be handed plot armor, they have to take those mantles, by force, from the author and audience. Characters exist in physical realms for those who consume the medium, and they (the audience) can compartmentalize them however they see fit. Those who write them well must be connected to their life and be able to enter their notion of reality. They need to look at everything in the very fashion the character, not the author, would. There is a fallacy in this notion, certainly.

Bear with me as I wax philosophical for a minute. Every person living is experiencing a different life. My understanding of everything is different from yours. Literally everything. We cannot actually share a true reality. Even our agreed upon truths and safeguards for civilization and emotive creatures aren’t the same for any of us. Sometimes those differences are massive and noticeable, but what I’m talking about is more simplistic and broad than that. My understanding of, experiences with, and value of anything cannot match anyone else’s. The details of humanity are too beautifully complex and violently chaotic for that. The methods by which we store information and use that to interact with the world is a deeply personal thing. One alteration to our experience would vastly render us different. If we ventured into an alternate reality that only differentiated from ours in one way, whether it is the name of butterflies or the hand you use as dominant, you would find yourself alienated from your alternate reality self. You wouldn’t be able to think the same as the other version of yourself. It can be fun to consider this, to give reality this much elasticity. It is also alienating and puts humans on a path of solipsism. I think this is unfortunately true.

Now, there are methods by which one can get a sort of look behind the veil of other peoples lives. A glance at the network that connects us. Methods to get “online” a sort of spiritual and psychic internet. Meditation, drugs, shared experiences, sexy maybe. But being able to see the others, or talk to them even, aren’t the same as being them. You are still connected via your understanding, experiences with, and values regarding these cosmic treats. You’re still using “software” you designed yourself and you happen to own the search engine. I’m not against fostering these connections. I’ve dabbled in all the methods above and love all my time spent “online”. It’s only on those grounds I’m comfortable in my conclusions. We haven’t mastered self-awareness as entities. We haven’t escaped the reality of human consciousness. I think it is unfortunately true.

See my fallacy? I’ve made creative writing essentially impossible. If to write is to express lives and you can’t ever truly escape your own, how the fuck can you write?

The answer is you can’t. Writing is like conducting an experiment. You can’t ever actually prove anything, but you can disprove dumb shit and elevate certain theory’s credibility. A writer’s job is trying to create places where others live. Good writers make those places seem like a place you’d want to visit on your own consciousness internet excursions. Good writers elevate the good places and populate them with characters that don’t have to prove anything. Their characters spread out, touching the surfaces and melding with the place. The good writer sets out to birth creatures and lets them roam freely and develop into what they need to be, not what the author wants them to be.

 

Get off my chest (Bullshit Please Don’t Read)

Since I’ve turned 25 there has been a girl of the month. A tinder girl I visited in a Eastern Washington town in August, a girl I knew from college who sends me random nudes in September, a girl from my hometown I spent a whole evening with in October, a chubby gal who left during November, a fuck buddy reconnect in December, a Co-Ed in January. Part of coping with losing a 3 year Relationship (I wanted it over, she wanted it over, but it was still a big change) probably. Some of them have been friends with benefits. That was fun usually. Not always. Sometimes meaningless sex is just that. Some I’ve been really excited about. Those have been more interesting, since I’ve consistently found a way to make it not happen. Not self sabotage style, but via actual revealing of myself. Once through drinking, once after a month and a half of texting and even a actual date. The last one was the girl of January. It’s a fresh wound. I’m still hurt, and confused, and conflicted by the fact of that pain since it was good before.

This model is what I missed in college, during the span of that three year relationship. It’s undeniably harder to live this way now. Post early twenties. Post long term relationship. All the other elements of my life scream complete in some capacity, I’ve found adulthood. It’s boring and better all at once, but my relationship status fails to have grown up with the rest of me. I don’t really know what to do about that. Like, how do you find someone compatible, with the right amount of common and different? How do you even make friends at this age? How do you turn your crippling anxieties and depressions into anything that someone else is willing to help you deal with? Where do you find the fucking girl that also grew up with Jurassic Park and the Matthew Broderick Godzilla movie and she’s also the same amount of hot as you? What if the answer is you don’t?

To the girls of the month, thank you for everything. To the girl who is everything, where are you? To the notion of true love, why did you go corporate? To myelf, you need to be happy with yourself more than anything. Also to myself, I fucking love myself, so redact that last sentence. Also to myself, you’re selfish. And once more, to myself, don’t give up.

If Hemingway Wrote My Life

The Teacher watched the bubbles race each other to the surface of his drink. It was a bastard drink, 7-Up and Knob Creek Whiskey on ice. It was the yellow of an ale and had almost no bite. He could have sworn he put in several fingers of the whiskey, but the soda held all the bite at bay. It was good and sweet in the late afternoon. It made his mind at ease at first swig.

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Dear Alt-Right, More Pizzagates Please

Dear Alt-Right, More Pizzagates Please

 

If you are a fan of my work, you already know of my predisposition for conspiracy theories of all flavors. If you aren’t a fan of my work but are reading this, I love conspiracy theories. Something about the visceral need to escape reality, the desire to separate from the accepted, It’s in the base desire of all fiction writers. Our brains augment reality all the time to find ideas, and in conspiracy theorists, we find a similar ilk. A fraternal twin. Similarity shouldn’t be seen as acceptance, however. I’m more a fan than a researcher, an artist looking for a muse. Do I like conspiracy theories and read about them and dive deep into the bowels of YouTube for them? Yes. Do I believe them? Not really.

 

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The Evernote Archives Pt. 2

Here, have some more of my unfiltered giblets. See the first post of this nature here. 


Even nothingness needs something to experience it.


I’m pretty depressed so my poetry should be better, and I only know it’s winter cause of the beer bottles littered around my room and all this rain that makes me swell with joy, and the USPS is lying to me about delivering my package so I’m sure glad I pay my taxes, futility is being sent pictures of myself they year my roommate and I starved ourselves to afford weed and wondering if I could get back to that, I want to get back to that, and simultaneously I don’t care, I can’t care look at all this fucking hair, look at the constant bags under my eyes, so why do the online tests only ever grant me mild depression, I self harm just not with blades, it’s a long con, that’s how I’ll kill this sack that carries me, see im gonna milk my sorrow as long as I can, get me back in college man, do the work do do do the work yet I’m so lethargic and so middle, so bland, I want to simmer this fat and let it sauté onions to perfect brown, I want to dance on a grave to see if I feel bad, I want a fucking meaningful text back, I want less of these fucking breakup songs on my shuffle, I want to wake up three years from now and I don’t want tomorrow, I should meditate again, I should masterbate again, I should talk to more people who hate me, I should figure out if I actually love anyone, ever loved anyone, how can you know if you actually felt love(?), how can we drop the cliches, how can I further wrestle my hypocrisy and air my dirty laundry, how does this help, how can I help, everything I do is for change and all that does is isolate me, as I transition to smoke, transition to shadow and dirt and no new form relieves the hurt, and I’m making myself cry from the honesty, Jesus how long since you’ve been honest with me, everything I do to numb the pain is just vacuous now, recyclable me with recyclable vices and all the false nices, and I’m pretty depressed so why the fuck isn’t my Poetry better…


Everyone always covers their cameras on their devices, I don’t know why. Comfort in the notion that some cares enough to watch à la Truman Show, comfort in letting someone else document this moment and preserve it forever, me with a hat and hoodie indoors, drinking whiskey and reading The Waste Land outloud again while Sylvan Esso and The Velvet Underground and all that shit I collect to remind my emotions they aren’t unique crowds the airwaves, the disappointment in my eyes as I read my old annotations and realize I’m not that smart anymore, comfort in the fact that no matter how small we all are, they still have deemed us worthy of study and shots, comfort in the fact that eventually there will be a documentary about me.

Status Update

Captains log, star date 5/31/17… Hello Diane, it’s agent Cooper… extra extra, read all about… ladies and gentlemen of the court… in the red corner… hold onto your butts… LET’S GET READY TO RUMBLE. I don’t post to social media much anymore, here’s some of my thoughts to explain why.

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Three Year Anniversary Poetry Dump

This blog has existed for three years now, and to celebrate, here are three previously unpublished works from my most recent collection of poetry. The title of this collection is The Digging Hymns, and much like my first collection (Slump) it is unpublished, unfinished, and really just a snapshot of my writing from the age of 22 forward. If either my bodies of unloved work had to have themes, Slump is all about melodrama, angst, and being a fucking wanker. The Digging Hymns is, if anything, just more pretentious. Enjoy, and thanks for spending time with us.

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