The Fire Is Back On The Fingertips

I've been writing short stories for quite a long time, usually not much more than a few pages, if that, but I've honed the craft pretty well in that time frame. Sure, my grammar may be off and my punctuation at times can be horrendous, but I can hammer out a story in minutes if someone were to give me a few random objects (people, places, things) to begin the process. Many times at work I find myself creating stories on the fly for people, it seems to make their day better and I'm always willing to help do that.

I realized something though about fiction, about short stories and especially about telling stories off the cuff.

It is all just like lying, like one big con.

You see, I used to lie and manipulate people all the time when I was younger, often times for personal gain but sometimes to help. I know that sounds bad, lying and manipulating to "help" but often times it was a good solution and even when it wasn't the intention still remained good. I stopped doing that though, years and years ago. I mean sure, every now and then I'll find myself trying to steer certain situations in my direction, but I think we are all guilty of that in some manner or another. None of this matters though, it was in my past and although it shaped the person I am today, it is not who I am at all. What I'm saying is that I stopped and when I stopped was right around the time I seriously got into writing.

It's a much better and far less harmful outlet for my creativity. Rather than lie about something petty, I can mastermind an elaborate story that is completely fictional. Instead of manipulating people, I can shape the lives of any character I create in their entirety.

It works the same as lying too, people want to believe and you have to keep your audience engaged. You have to relate and they have to feel as if they understand where the characters are coming from or at the very least they have to be entertained by the lie.

In elementary school I used to play a game with my two friends Zack and Nate, it was strictly based in our imaginations and we called ourselves Adventure Guys. We played that game for years before we "got too old" but what really happened was the same thing that happens to most kids, your imagination seems to weaken. It didn't for me though and I'll admit that even to this day I find myself pretending to be my Adventure Guy every now and then.

In middle school I met another friend who shared the same strength of imagination that so few others seemed to retain. We used to pretend and quite vividly I assure, it was almost as if it was real when he and I got together, that we were fighting some strange evil in the world and he and I had special abilities. We were some of the few that could see this "evil" so we naturally had to stop it. As with all things imaginary however, that too faded, especially with the onset of girls and girlfriends.

So, in high school, with no time for imagination and the ever present public school system squelching my creativity, I started lying and fabricating stories. I manipulated teachers and students, I essentially cheated my way through two years of high school. All the while I was still learning mind you, but learning has never been difficult for me, I absorb information like a sponge.

In high school, it is all fun and games and popularity contests and silly social structures that don't exist outside the real world. I began to realize that outside of a school setting, the things I was doing would really only hurt people or make them furious with me, neither of which were things I wanted. Above all else, I have always prided myself on being helpful and caring, so I never intend to hurt anyone.

I had to find another outlet for my crazy brain, for my creativity and my imagination, so I started writing. I had always enjoyed writing but it never crossed my mind that it could be exactly the kind of thing I needed.

It was.

Now, years and years later, I lie all of the time, but not out loud and not to people. I lie in fiction because fiction really is nothing more than a story that does not have to be constrained by truth. It can be whatever I want it to be, I get to make my own truth.

Best of all though, if done right, I can still influence the real world with all of this. If I tell a story well enough and make you feel something for the characters, I then have influenced your life even if it is in only the slightest way. If done well, I can make countless people happy or sad or joyous! That is amazing and that is why I love fiction. It is nothing more than great stories (lies) but they help people! Make people feel something.

That's the dream right there.

Bad Writing About Good Writing

I had to leave work early today, it was an absolute necessity. I felt as if I was crawling out of my skin and I had to escape that place. After 3 years and 6 times being passed up for promotion I have little tolerance and no desire to be there. I left early, but I'll have to go back tomorrow and the next day, on and on into the foreseeable future.

The moment I set foot into that building each weekday, a wave of melancholy and despair sweeps over me and lingers there pressing ever so gently onto me, not letting me forget it is there. Sometimes I can shake it off for a while, but it never goes away for very long. I try not to bring it home with me, but often times it skulks around hours after I myself have left the place which brings it out.

All of this got me really thinking and trying to examine when I was happiest with work and like most things, it came to me while I was showering.

Years ago I wrote a book and it was published through a company that was little more than a joke. They accept nearly all submissions and have no real editors (as is apparent by how ridden with typos and errors my book is) and you don't really make any money, for the most part this publishing company takes advantage of stupid people, but I knew all this going in. It wasn't about money or fame or how well edited or received my book was, it was solely and completely something I did to for myself.

I needed to write it, I needed to get it published and I needed to see my work, my labor and the world I created physically in my hands. I didn't care how it happened, I just needed to prove to myself that I could do it and after I finished writing it, the hard part was over. It didn't cost me anything to get it published and I have made a small amount from it, but none of that mattered, I was proud and happy that I did it even though I knew it wasn't really anything special. Everyone else seemed to think it was, but I knew better but I was still proud, still happy.

Thinking back to when I writing that book I remember constantly being immersed in it. Getting excited every time I got to talk with the few people that knew about it. People tell me I used to light up and get so happy whenever I started to talk about what I was going to write next and looking back, I believe them. During that whole writing process though I did have a job and it wasn't any more fulfilling than the one I currently despair at. It didn't matter though because my mind instead of wandering off to bad places while bored and dissatisfied with my job, I simply lost myself in the next chapter or where the story was going next.

My real job wasn't so bad when my mind was immersed in a different world, a place I created and sculpted and I don't recall ever being happier while working.

I guess that's my solution now, my survival method, I am going to finish another book. This time however, the goal is much higher. I've already proven to myself that I can do it, now it is time to try and start doing it for a living.