Writing. It’s a chore. A brief rush of insight and creativity, and then … editing. The thought stream that spills upon the page like tipped ink blots out your true intent. So, to shape the block of incoherent, fragmented ideas, you carve, you craft, and then maybe you have a rough piece of work that someone might pay pennies for at a car boot or garage sale. It takes time, but it is worth it if someone enjoys your work. In truth, it’s worth if no one does. The stories are my children, no matter how malformed or monstrous they are.
Loony. Crackpot. Nutcase. Basket case. Schizo. Psycho. The list goes on. All those lovely words we use to describe others who we keep on the periphery of our vision, those who live in the shadow of themselves. It reminds me of that movie, ‘The Beach’, in which Leornardo DiCaprio parties with others on a secret beach in paradise. During the film, a guy gets bitten by a shark, cries about it, and because of his whining, is placed in a tent far from the beach. The guy, now out of earshot, doesn’t do too well as the unbitten enjoy themselves, and celebrate their eternal golden bodies with a magic pre-photoshop selfie shot. Woo hoo!