THOUGHTS IN THE NIGHT
I’m not interested in writers nothing like myself.
The initial draft is the final draft.
Write as you do when you have procrastinated, the deadline is upon you, you must do it now! Virtually no time for second drafts.
My most successful stories were written fast, one draft. Example: I wrote a brief story per day for 30 days — 8 were published. The initial draft is the final draft. The short story done in from someone to three hours, dependant on length. 1000 words an hour.
Five minutes to contemplate story ideas, 5 minutes to remove ideas of a possible story. 50 minutes to create a thousand- word short story. Three hours for 3000 words.
The simplest stories to create are fiction. And the easiest of the fiction stories is a story which is all dialogue. The initial speaker says นิยาย something threatening or cynical or offhand about the 2nd speaker. The second 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 arises in the dialogue.
Fiction, in my own case, is definitely done in a 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 get it done easily, it is fun. It is my smoothest writing. It has no importance. It is subversive, mischievous, laughing at the world and myself.
It’s an easy task 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 get it done, how readily it is accepted. It is like planning to church, everyone understands 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. Such as a subtle drift to death. Brainless.
Rewriting, the necessity to rewrite, is only 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 this instance he has to return, cleanup his own, lazy, only-half-there droppings.
A negative habit, developed over countless repetitions of the same mental block/malaise, half-speed, “anything surpasses nothing,” an accepted escape mechanism unfortunately used in the beginning to “overcome the hump,” then done again and again, half-assed means of getting something down in some recoverable format — until finally poor people 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, such as a tired housewife putting up with intercourse — because it is familiar, it would lead to, occasionally, something more interesting.
Merely a practice, a bad habit, an accidental bad means to fix the problem — how to get started?
The problem 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 initial draft, becomes worse and more powerful, before the writer spends more and more hours re-writing timid, lazy, uninspired, no-heart writing, until it becomes a necessity 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 think so, I agree with them. Chances are they’re right. They shouldn’t attempt to be 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, as they are boring. And they shouldn’t write fiction, that’s, lies, because there are plenty of lies already.
I’m interested only in conversing with writers 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 a few, maybe. Late bloomers. Still innocent, by accident.
Actually, the sole writers I’m mildly interested in conversing with — writers like myself — don’t need me to communicate 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 in 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.