It is strange that something as personal as writing can still feel so impersonal. That despite the perfect clarity of the creative outlet, there is still so much kept back, so much unsaid. Even here, I cannot say what I want to say; and therefore this is not, as I once thought it would be, a sort of therapy for me. It is a simple passing of the hours.
13 consecutive days of posts, each at 7:22pm (although with this post it will be 14…). Why? I really do not know. Perhaps my life is missing structure. Did you notice? Perhaps that is also the point. How much of our lives goes unnoticed?
The great yawning unfinished unfillable chasm… at present I have 31 unfinished pieces sitting as drafts and collecting pixel dust. Does anyone else have this problem? I wonder if it means I should be writing more or writing less…
I am officially closing my old blog wordsinstrings and moving everything directly here.
We now resume our regularly scheduled programming.
‘When someone says “have a good day” I now retaliate by saying “you too”, because punching them in the face and telling them to f&!^ off is frowned upon.’
penisland.net – determinedly ignoring hyphens since 1998.
So who is the character of Karl based on?
It’s not based on yourself for example?
No. Just a character.
But would you say that there is something of you in Karl?
No… Or, there is something of me in everyone. But that isn’t significant. I don’t create those people. Karl is a creation of mine but he isn’t me. I made this tea but the tea is not me. There may be residual heat from my hand in the teacup, or a speck of dirt from my skin, but the tea is not me. Karl is a creation, a fabrication, a made up thing. He is not real because nothing is real.
In fiction you mean?