“To FB Fren: let me know what you like/don’t.
Some of it is intensely personal…lol. No all of it is.
The fiction and the non alike.
Writing is, was, shall always be the place to once agaIn to flesh out the monsters and devas in my mind.
That is true for me. It may not be the truth of other writers, and that’s okay.
If you find Voodoo Thoughts (or whatever I fucking named the piece) compelling know it was not about a lover. I will leave you to figure out what it was referencing..as any any good/terrible poet should.
Every single fiction piece you have read has likely had a reason.
And by that, I mean that there was an emotional connection to what they wrote.
People don’t write in a vacuum. They write from experiences and feelings and of hurt and love and grief and thought and opportunity. And and and.
I tend to write (both fiction and non) from a place of wanting to place my readers where I was. Even if is fiction and I never experienced what was going on (for example, I have *never* had the experience of being in love with a half mad mage….)
Except for the mage part, yeah. I have.
He was an excellent mad/angry bard though.
At any rate, *slippery Place Where We All Go To Find The Words+ eels slipping away*
My over elaborate point is that a lot of fiction is someone looking at something in their life and going. “huh”.
And that is what I mean. A good story should plant you headfirst into the feels of it.
+ – h/t to Senor King’s “Lisey’s Story”
I woke up thinking about a scene I’d read years ago. It was in Stephen King’s The Stand. I don’t know if my dreaming brain was remembering it correctly. In it, Nick Andros and Jane Baker (the Sheriff’s wife) were essentially sitting shiva for her husband while he died.
“Mama! Fox is in the henhouse, Mama!” The Sheriff thrashed fretfully and moaned.
Do you remember how awful Captain Trips1 was? If I am recalling the statistics from the novel, it had a 98% mortality rate. Once you got it, you were almost certainly going to die.
I remember that scene being very powerful. I mean, it was not essential to the story in the grand scheme of things. And yet, it was absolutely crucial to the story in the way it set up the illness as a scythe that reaped through everyone – good and bad alike.
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