Sometimes, I find myself envying song writers and poets. Not because I feel inferior (although I do, sometimes) but because their version of written reality seems less sharply defined than mine.
I think that is the problem with writing mostly creative non-fiction. I’ve got free rein to be creative in how I write and edit a story, but at the end of the day there is truth. The things I write about here, they’re happening to me, in real life.
It takes a lot of my brain cells to work out how I want to continue writing, when the itch is there, but there is nothing tangible that I can put my finger on to write about.
Some days, the blog posts flow like water and I press publish and everything is great. Other days, the itch to write is intense, but there isn’t the time to write fiction (have you tried writing fiction with two children demanding cuddles and lunches and playtime?) and nothing especially exciting is happening here.
I have two blogs, the other of which is ostensibly for writing. It’s meant to be for the short pieces of fiction (which go down like a lead balloon in Internet-Land) and the unreal realities, for the untruthiness and the warped reality. Sadly, it’s also sorely neglected and almost entirely truthful.
I think that might be the problem with the Internet. The Internet demands truth and raw ripped souls. It is an insatiable machine, filled with LOL-cats and fuzzy bunnies and the dark dark undercurrents of don’t you dare lie to us.
I’ve written fiction on the other blog, tagged it as fiction and still had readers assume that it was a representation of my life. It was …… uncomfortable. For me, anyway – probably not so much for them.
Sometimes, I am drawn to starting a new blog, one filled entirely with lies. Stories of sex and death and art and music, all wrapped up together and quietly, somewhere, tagged as fiction. The urge to deceive, to create a whole world that is entirely my own – that appeals to me.
Then I wonder – wouldn’t I be better off putting that energy into some of the fictional pieces I am meant to be working on? (Yes. Yes I would)
But the urge is there, and I expect it will remain – at least until I can comfortably write fiction every day and save the Internet from wanting to lynch me for it.