Random Thought #4628

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.

exit;

Extract from a magazine interview

So who is the character of Karl based on?

Nobody.

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?

That too.