I have decided, without really telling anyone, that I am writing only fiction in October. But I am interrupting this fiction-writing to tell you about this fact: the fact of my fiction-writing.
Are you confused? Me too.
I have been, for a while now, writing a book. It's about my life. Rather, it's a book about the life I remember having, threaded through several layers of muslin, memory and interpretation. I think, on reflection, that it's fiction. Historical fiction, maybe. The main character is either a prophet or a tortured soul. It reads like the life of a saint before they reach salvation. You keep waiting, hoping, and rooting for the character, counting moments 'til the quiescent bliss that comes at the other side of revelation. But this character instead has thousands of revelations as commonplace as small grey flies. She changes, grows, responds to life's circumstances, and all the while remains frustratingly the same.
How does one end such a thing?
I have waded in too deep, gotten right up to the present time. Here I am then, standing in water up to my neck, afraid if I step down off my tip-toes I might end up sucking down H2O. I am surrounded by my ego, by my current story-line, by a self I cannot fully see, a life I do not know yet is fiction.
Fact? It seemed time to take a break. So I decided to write fiction, to take scissors and chop up the world into stories that go where I want them to go. I decided to draw characters and see what I can learn from them. I am not a fiction writer. It's a bit as if I took a break to learn to play golf.
So, bear with me, gentle readers in October. And be vewy, vewy quiet. I am writing fiction.
...consciously, for once.
*The above image, by the way, was done for me by the inimitable Merisha Lemmer and will ultimately become the banner for a complete blog re-design. Pretty awesome, huh? You should totally hire her.
Please don't steal my words or images. All rights reserved.