THOUGHTS IN THE NIGHT
I’m not thinking about writers not like myself.
The initial draft is the ultimate draft.
Write as you do if you have procrastinated, the deadline is upon you, you must do it now! Almost no time for second drafts.
My most successful stories were written fast, one draft. Example: I wrote a quick story a day for 30 days — 8 were published. The initial draft is the ultimate draft. The short story done in from one to three hours, based upon length. 1000 words an hour.
Five minutes to contemplate story ideas, 5 minutes to remove ideas in regards to a possible story. 50 minutes to write a thousand- word short story. Three hours for 3000 words.
The simplest stories to write are fiction. And the easiest of the fiction stories is just a story which will be all dialogue. The initial speaker says นิยาย something threatening or cynical or offhand about the 2nd speaker. The 2nd speaker responds. The initial speaker responds to that. The dialogue intensifies, you can find insults, tempered by sudden bursts of affection or kindness. The story resolves itself from the writer’s unconscious — and what comes up in the dialogue.
Fiction, in my case, is obviously done in an ironical tone, tongue-in-cheek, often funny, existential, produced from my past. However not intentionally serious. Minimally controlled.
When I write fiction, I consider it worthless, dangerous, disgusting. I do it easily, it’s fun. It is my smoothest writing. It has no importance. It is subversive, mischievous, laughing at the entire world and myself.
It’s simple to publish fiction because people want escape, want to read what they’re used to — fiction writers borrowing from fiction writers, an endless relay of lies.
I’m amused, disgusted, by how easily I do it, how readily it’s accepted. It is similar to going to church, everyone knows the format, it’s comfortable, everyone around you knows, expects, exactly the same thing. It is endlessly repeating, brainless, exactly the same story. Requires minimal energy, no thought. Comfortable, and deadly safe, like twilight of sleep. Seemingly harmless. As harmless as a tranquilizer, or one more drink. Choir preaching to the choir. Such as a subtle drift to death. Brainless.
Rewriting, the necessity to rewrite, is only a bad habit. An initial laziness which requires mop-up. A drunk slopping his drink as he goes from the bartender to his seat, only in this case he has to return, clean up their own, lazy, only-half-there droppings.
A bad habit, developed over countless repetitions of exactly the same mental block/malaise, half-speed, “anything surpasses nothing,” an accepted escape mechanism unfortunately used initially to “get over the hump,” then done again and again, half-assed means of getting something down on paper — until finally the indegent writer will start writing no other way, half-hearted, half-there, sloppiness, laziness, not important — it can be cleaned up later, put right.
A practice, just like a tired housewife setting up with intercourse — because it’s familiar, it may lead to, sometimes, something more interesting.
Merely a practice, a negative habit, an accidental bad treatment for the problem — getting started?
The issue is, like any bad habit, finally it impedes, diminishes, becomes worse.
And finally, the bad habit of the writer knowing he will re-write, thus can be sloppy on the first draft, becomes worse and more powerful, before writer spends more and more hours re-writing timid, lazy, uninspired, no-heart writing, until it becomes essential to rewrite twelve times because each rewrite is weakened by the expectation, thus necessity, of re-writing again, again, again.
I haven’t any curiosity about conversing with escape writers — science-fiction, romance, mysteries, detective novels — fiction.
Lies borrowed from liars, borrowed endlessly from endless generations of liars — fiction.
I haven’t any curiosity about conversing with writers who feel true to life, their life, their experiences, is uninteresting, boring, useless. If they believe so, I trust them. Odds are they’re right. They shouldn’t attempt to be always a writer. They have nothing to offer. They should be lawyers or brick layers or chicken farmers.
They shouldn’t write about their own lives, since they are boring. And they shouldn’t write fiction, that’s, lies, because there are more than enough lies already.
I’m interested only in conversing with writers very much like myself. And only if they are 18 to 30. After 30, a few. But mostly no, they’re lost. Like trying to cure an alcoholic. But several, maybe. Late bloomers. Still innocent, by accident.
Actually, the only real writers I’m mildly thinking about conversing with — writers very much like myself — don’t need me to keep in touch with them.
They, like me when I was young, are inspired, unconscious-gifted, by the great autobiographical writers they read: Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Thomas Wolfe, Henry Miller, Anais Nin, D. H. Lawrence, Theodore Dreiser, Somerset Maughm. Maughm only in one single book, “Of Human Bondage.” Roth, Mailer, Bellow, Agee, Burroughs, Jack London, Orwell, Conroy, Kerowac, Melville, James T. Farrell.
“All great fiction is autobiographical since authors write most effectively about what they know.” Judith S. Baughman.
“Write that which you know, not that which you read.” Grant Flint.
Great writers illuminate life. Hack writers facilitate escape from life. Commercial writing is first cousin to booze, over-eating, cocaine. Temporary escape. Life then worse.