THOUGHTS IN THE NIGHT
I’m not enthusiastic about writers in contrast to myself.
The very first draft is the ultimate draft.
Write as you do when you have procrastinated, the deadline is upon you, you must do it! No time for second drafts.
My most successful stories were written fast, one draft. Example: I wrote a short story per day for 30 days — 8 were published. The very first draft is the ultimate draft. The short story done in from anyone to three hours, dependant on length. 1000 words an hour.
Five minutes to contemplate story ideas, five full minutes to take down ideas about 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 these fiction stories is really a story that is all dialogue. The very first speaker says นิยาย something threatening or cynical or offhand about the second speaker. The 2nd speaker responds. The very first 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 pops up in the dialogue.
Fiction, within my case, is obviously done in an ironical tone, tongue-in-cheek, often funny, existential, derived from my past. However not intentionally serious. Minimally controlled.
When I write fiction, I consider it worthless, dangerous, disgusting. I take action easily, it’s fun. It is my smoothest writing. It does not have any importance. It is subversive, mischievous, laughing at the world and myself.
It’s simple to publish fiction because people want escape, want to see what they’re used to — fiction writers borrowing from fiction writers, an endless relay of lies.
I’m amused, disgusted, by how easily I take action, how readily it’s accepted. It is much like planning to church, everybody knows the format, it’s comfortable, everyone around you knows, expects, the same thing. It is endlessly repeating, brainless, 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. Just like a subtle drift to death. Brainless.
Rewriting, the necessity to rewrite, is simply a bad habit. A preliminary laziness which requires mop-up. A drunk slopping his drink as he goes from the bartender to his seat, only in cases like this he’s to return, pick up his own, lazy, only-half-there droppings.
A bad habit, developed over countless repetitions of the same mental block/malaise, half-speed, “anything is preferable to nothing,” an accepted escape mechanism unfortunately used at first to “get over the hump,” then done again and again, half-assed method of getting something down written down — until finally the poor writer can start writing no other way, half-hearted, half-there, sloppiness, laziness, not important — it can be cleared up later, put right.
A habit, just like a tired housewife adding with intercourse — because it’s familiar, it will result in, sometimes, something more interesting.
Merely a habit, a poor habit, an unintended bad solution to the situation — getting started?
The problem 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 may be sloppy on the first draft, becomes worse and better, before writer spends more and additional time re-writing timid, lazy, uninspired, no-heart writing, until it becomes a necessity to rewrite a dozen times because each rewrite is weakened by the expectation, thus necessity, of re-writing again, again, again.
I have no fascination with speaking with escape writers — science-fiction, romance, mysteries, detective novels — fiction.
Lies borrowed from liars, borrowed endlessly from endless generations of liars — fiction.
I have no fascination with speaking with writers who feel true to life, their life, their experiences, is uninteresting, boring, useless. If they think so, I agree with them. Chances are they’re right. They shouldn’t attempt to become a writer. They have nothing to offer. They must be lawyers or brick layers or chicken farmers.
They shouldn’t reveal their very own lives, because they’re boring. And they shouldn’t write fiction, that’s, lies, because there are plenty of lies already.
I’m interested only in speaking with writers like myself. And only if they’re 18 to 30. After 30, a few. But mostly no, they’re lost. Like attempting to cure an alcoholic. But several, maybe. Late bloomers. Still innocent, by accident.
Actually, the only real writers I’m mildly enthusiastic about speaking with — writers like myself — don’t need me to speak with them.
They, like me when I was young, are inspired, unconscious-gifted, by the truly amazing 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 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 by what they know.” Judith S. Baughman.
“Write what you know, not what 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.