Thursday, February 12, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Simmering Fred
I read a really good book about writing short stories once, and the author referred to "Fred" as the name for his subconscious mind. He called his contemplative periods "feeding Fred", and seemed to think they were healthy and useful to an artist. I've been wondering lately if my Fred is dead. I'm afraid I've spent so much time feeding him, that now I'm just throwing food on a corpse. Maybe his stomach burst like that guy in Seven. Fred's just lying there at the table with his face planted in a bowl of spaghetti.
I've been reading, watching TV, sleeping (alot - I think I have some sort of condition...seriously), and generally avoiding much responsibility for over a year now. I've written a few abortive novel attempts, a few poems, even drew a few pictures, but to no avail. I have this inner creative urge, this constant thrumming in my head. It's not explicit, but the words I might associate with it are "Get going. Do something. You need to express yourself. You need to get the message out." Unfortunately, somewhere during the transmission, the actual "message" is lost, or jumbled, or not included at all. Who the hell am I to have anything to say? I live a middle-class life in a mundane world, my imagination is blurry, unkempt and maudlin at best.
I am fascinated by everything, though. I go on these weird tangents where I get totally obsessed with something, jones on it for a month or two, then drop it like it's radioactive. This year, my kicks have included - Dungeons & Dragons (the old school one), poetry, drawing, comic books, time travel, native americans, Deadwood, horror fiction, Doctor Who, X-files, soccer, Conan fiction, avant-garde art, Chris Cornell, Romance of the Three Kingdoms, wuxia, Disney pins, surrealism, sweatpants, tiki and oceanic myths, and a lot of other stuff I probably have forgotten.
I can't tell whether I'm quirky and strange, and therefore cool, or just a lazy, worthless slob. And the worst part? I'm not sure I care.
I've been reading, watching TV, sleeping (alot - I think I have some sort of condition...seriously), and generally avoiding much responsibility for over a year now. I've written a few abortive novel attempts, a few poems, even drew a few pictures, but to no avail. I have this inner creative urge, this constant thrumming in my head. It's not explicit, but the words I might associate with it are "Get going. Do something. You need to express yourself. You need to get the message out." Unfortunately, somewhere during the transmission, the actual "message" is lost, or jumbled, or not included at all. Who the hell am I to have anything to say? I live a middle-class life in a mundane world, my imagination is blurry, unkempt and maudlin at best.
I am fascinated by everything, though. I go on these weird tangents where I get totally obsessed with something, jones on it for a month or two, then drop it like it's radioactive. This year, my kicks have included - Dungeons & Dragons (the old school one), poetry, drawing, comic books, time travel, native americans, Deadwood, horror fiction, Doctor Who, X-files, soccer, Conan fiction, avant-garde art, Chris Cornell, Romance of the Three Kingdoms, wuxia, Disney pins, surrealism, sweatpants, tiki and oceanic myths, and a lot of other stuff I probably have forgotten.
I can't tell whether I'm quirky and strange, and therefore cool, or just a lazy, worthless slob. And the worst part? I'm not sure I care.
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