THOUGHTS IN THE NIGHT
I’m not interested in writers nothing like myself.
The very first draft is the last draft.
Write as you do when you yourself 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 each day for 30 days — 8 were published. The very first draft is the last draft. The short story done in from someone to three hours, based upon length. 1000 words an hour.
Five full minutes to contemplate story ideas, 5 minutes to defeat ideas in regards to a possible story. 50 minutes to publish a thousand- word short story. Three hours for 3000 words.
The easiest stories to publish are fiction. And the simplest of those fiction stories is a story which is all dialogue. The very first speaker says นิยาย something threatening or cynical or offhand about the second speaker. The second speaker responds. The very first speaker responds to that. The dialogue intensifies, you will 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, within my case, is always done within an ironical tone, tongue-in-cheek, often funny, existential, based on my past. However not intentionally serious. Minimally controlled.
When I write fiction, I ponder over it worthless, dangerous, disgusting. I take action easily, it’s fun. It is my smoothest writing. It has no 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 like likely 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. Like a subtle drift to death. Brainless.
Rewriting, the necessity to rewrite, is merely a bad habit. An original laziness which requires mop-up. A drunk slopping his drink as he goes from the bartender to his seat, only in this instance he has to go back, pick up their own, lazy, only-half-there droppings.
A poor habit, developed over countless repetitions of exactly the same mental block/malaise, half-speed, “anything is better than nothing,” an accepted escape mechanism unfortunately used in the beginning to “get over the hump,” then done again and again, half-assed means of getting something down in writing — until finally the indegent writer can begin writing no other way, half-hearted, half-there, sloppiness, laziness, not important — it could be cleared up later, put right.
A practice, just like a tired housewife putting up with intercourse — because it’s familiar, it will result in, on occasion, something more interesting.
Merely a practice, a negative habit, an accidental bad treatment for the situation — how to get started?
The issue is, like any bad habit, finally it impedes, diminishes, becomes worse.
And finally, the bad habit of the writer knowing he’ll re-write, thus could be sloppy on the very 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 have no curiosity about 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 curiosity about speaking with writers who feel actual life, their life, their experiences, is uninteresting, boring, useless. If they think so, I trust them. Odds are they’re right. They shouldn’t attempt to be always a writer. They have nothing to offer. They must be lawyers or brick layers or chicken farmers.
They shouldn’t write about their very own lives, because they are boring. And they shouldn’t write fiction, that is, lies, because there are more than enough lies already.
I’m interested only in speaking 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 wanting to cure an alcoholic. But several, maybe. Late bloomers. Still innocent, by accident.
Actually, the only real writers I’m mildly interested in speaking 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 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.