I was thinking of writing a book in February but I can’t decide if I should write it as myself (creative nonfiction sort of artsy type thing) or if I should try to contrive some sort of fantastic story, complete with narrator, characters, pathetic fallacy and everything.
What do you think?
I am, as a rule, not much of a fiction writer because in all honesty my imagination is basically crap. I don’t imagine much at all any more, haven’t for years really, and when I do it’s mostly about how soft my bed will feel when I get back into it 8 hours from now.
Anne of Green Gables would be so disappointed. My childhood self is disgusted.
But I can’t help it. When was the last time YOU imagined anything decent enough to write down? I bet it’s been a while. Between work, second work, housekeeping (if you could call it that), and church involvement (or sundry other demands on your time and mine), I am dedicating all the best parts of my brain power to the mere task of existing in this world. Imagination? Who has the time?
Steve Jobs is turning over in his fresh-dug grave.
So fiction is basically out. Which leaves creative nonfiction–stories about my life but with a little poetic license. Or in other words, a recipe for freaking disaster. Can you imagine the people I could potentially offend and estrange by writing something like that? I’ve already been written out of my parents’ will, so the only thing left for them to do is literally disown me, which I wouldn’t really put it past them to do. My marriage would be in shambles. My neighbors would egg my house. Nightly. My grandmothers would be crushed. I can’t write about my life, not the way I want to anyway, not the way that would sell books.
It’s a Catch 22: I have flies in my eyes but I can’t see them because I have flies in my eyes.
Of course, given my recent history of failure with this blog there is absolutely no chance I could accomplish such a feat as writing a book during the month of February, so whatever genre I pick really doesn’t matter.
And that kind of self defeating talk is exactly why I’m stuck here today, 25.5 years old with not a published page to speak of.