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* - galaxy

lament

Posted on 2015.05.22 at 19:58
Musique actuelle: WAR ON DRUGS
I have an infinity of ideas to get down in writing before I die. But, sometimes, when I get something worthwhile written down, like the recent post, I feel like I want to finally get on with writing fiction. Its like, OK, isn't there enough philosophical stuff for my fiction readers to research on their own, by now? I realise that fiction is partly a sales strategy - for my deeper stuff, which will die on the vine otherwise. I don't care so much about fiction. I know I can be a whiz at it. But, personally, I have nothing to prove of myself through fiction. And the people who read fiction - most of them don't help make big changes in the world... Unless I write some MONUMENTAL novel, as did Harriet Beecher Stowe, whom history remembers less than the warrior president - and a damned bad president to boot - Ulysses S. Grant. Funny fiction tickles a lot of feet but where do they go?

After my major journey today, racked by illness, I had an idea for another novel - with a killer title. (Sorry, though, I do not give out marketable ideas on LJ). I know this novel would do well. And all my relatives - and neighbours - sit aside and scoff - WELL - SOME WRITER - WHERE IS YOUR NOVEL?! I have no audience but the future.

I want so much to dither away on fiction - so fun, though pointless. I could be the next Oscar Wilde by now, but I chose a path no one understands. Well. I have enough struggle, finding one day a week when I am free enough from my illness to explore important philosophical ideas. I spend so much time battling illness, dealing with daily life, dealing with stress from neighbours, forever rising back out of the memory void of my illness. I have only written down 10% of the important philosophical ideas I have, and yet I am forever called forward to discover more. Meanwhile, stupid human crap keeps demanding that I write about it, because of the need for justice in this world. As much as I love economics, there must be an end to this road, somewhere down the line. An end to global warming. This drought. Mass extinction. ISIS.

I DO NOT WANT TO WRITE OR EVEN THINK ABOUT THIS CRAP. It seems to me that if I just started writing fiction, it would be like becoming an intelligent zombie, in denial of all that is endangering our planet. How can I let my mind wander into a kind of literary masturbation? How can I even have time to unlock the secrets of the universe in my own extenuating philosophy? Forever, political bullshit keeps washing ashore like dead sea lions, and I need about ten more of me.

I'm dying here.

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