Add to the Chaos

I feel like writing, but about what I don’t know. I wish I had my stories from the other computer on here. I really feel like writing in Erin or Memory Writers, but it’s been so long I think I’d have to read from the beginning before I could continue the stories again. Sometimes I feel like it’s a complete impossibility for me to have an original idea. I feel like everything I write is a spin-off from one thing or another. And half the time I don’t even know what it is I’m writing about, I just start writing and it develops into something or another, but whatever I decide to entitle it may or may not have a thing to do with the actual story itself, I might just like the way it sounds and slap it on there just so I have something to call it by.


Maybe that’s the real story. Maybe what I’ll end up writing a book about, when all is said and done, is myself. A bit conceded sounding, I know. But somehow, all things considered, it’s what makes the most sense. I’ve tried writing story after story, and somehow in the end I always end up writing about something going on in my life, or the fact that I’m having trouble coming up with a story.


So there’s your story right there: a confused kid who loves to write but can’t. The only problem is, I hate to end up just another autobiography.(Do I sound like a narcissist yet?) I’d always imagined writing a science-fiction or fantasy book. But then, it seems that what we’ve always wanted and we can actually have tend to end up being very different things.


Here’s some more profound thoughts to add to the mix: I don’t know.

And the Winner is . . .

It's funny how we think. Sometimes there are things we want to do, but in the back of our minds, we have a tugging desire to do something else in its stead. Whether the former is the right thing to do, and in fact the thing we should want to do, there's remains a greater want to do the latter.

However, upon forced decision, we may choose the right thing to do, and thereafter realize how stupid of ourself it was to prefer the other idea in the first place. And yet, beyond that occasion our opinion is somehow again swayed to the former. So what makes one change their mind? Why are we so determined that one thing is always better than the other?

And yet, I've never questioned if any veggie was better than carrots.

Ode to an Underscore

It seems a recurrent pattern in the human life to hold an emblazoned desire to be correct. Despite all logical evidence held against the theory or hope they consider impervious to life, one’s stubbornness to admit erroneous reasoning is virtually impenetrable. We spend our whole lives thinking and hoping that just around the next corner we will find our egos improved in our accuracy, only to be so often disappointed to find that in our imperfection, we were, in fact, dead wrong.

Abiding by this thought, it seems an odd idea to think of that, when speaking on the subject of novels, novellas, or other such forms of story, we take the precise opposite approach: it is our deepest desire to find ourselves inarguably and unequivocally, in the wrong.

It has always been among my greatest of aspirations to be a writer whose enchanting plot twists baffle the minds of the readers, wows them into awe when they come to find at the climax of the story that their long thought out conjectures were, in point of fact, a far cry from the out workings of the plot. But then, in point of thought, it seems passions always come with a second ideal.

I have found there to be two kinds of books in this world: those that end how you expect them to, and those that don’t. But the irony lies not in the fact that we are inclined to read both, but in that, despite the opposition in story climax, both actions produce an equal, yet opposite, reaction. So maybe we knew he was going to kiss her, or maybe we’d been waiting the last three episodes to hear her tell him the truth we knew she’d reveal, but the fact that it happens nonetheless brings a rush of excitement, and it is even more the story itself- the events that lead to the ending we knew was about to happen- with which we are enthralled. Yet, upon finding our assumptions to be incorrect, in those stories whose ending disproves our suppositions, we are equally impassioned by the story for its glorious ability to engage and confound.

But the question at hand (though perhaps an entitlement to that which is ever indicative of nothing more than a poorly underscored thought, if even worthy of such,) is whether one ought be favored over the other. Perhaps it is an unnecessary question to the general outcome of life, but it is a particularly pertinent one to the outcome one’s story. It is all too often I find myself trying, with what could scarcely be considered ease, to write a story which may both enchant the reader with storyline while yet amazing them with an unexpected outcome, and ultimately ended up completely scrapping the story, for lack of enough imagination to combine the two.

So which, I have come to an end to ask myself, ought I write about? Is it better to have a story whose every plot twists engage the reader to such a point of enthrallment and exhilaration that even as simple a task as setting the book down becomes devastatingly difficult, until they have read the very last sentence and are nothing but elated and surprised by the ending underscoring the genius of the writer‘s imagination; or one whose very interpretation of an account touches the reader to the point of admiration and respect for the writer and their ability to capture not only the beauty of life and its accomplishments, but also the devastation, the emotion, the passion with which we each choose our own path, the relation we each hold to the other people in our lives.

The one may leave you exhilarated and surprised, but that’s it. A momentary bliss, and now that you’ve solved the mystery there’s not much point in reading the book again. On the other hand, a story whose characters hold the enchantment may pull you in with an all out excitement of peoples ideals, failures, and successions, but in the end it is the truth that actuality cannot be affected by a story book character that will lead you to delving into another book and hoping to escape reality for a little longer before you have to deal with real life people.

But then, perhaps it is the perspective that has been the problem all along. Perhaps it is not the better of two greats we must choose, but the lesser of two evils.

Careful Juliet. . . You've Done it Backward

If you are thinking one thing at one moment, then something totally different the next, an instantaneous change of mind, which idea was right? Or were they both wrong? And when thereafter you are inclined to inquire of yourself the proper- or perhaps the realistic- viewpoint, did you ever really believe that first thought in the first place, or was it just an illusion? Something you wanted to believe just to have something you believed in?

It is said that with the right evidence a case can be solved with considerable ease, but perhaps it is not the evidence we are lacking, but rather the solution itself, which will inevitably bring us to the evidence we so often seek to find. A backward method, yes, but nonetheless conducive to the ends, as the end is in fact the means.

And when all is said and done, the question is not one of considerable cruelty, but rather plain and simple: is it the truth that keeps us from accepting the reality, or reality that keeps us from seeing the truth?