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I’m writing something. So this is a piece of writing about writing. Amazing.

Good to be back in the saddle, so to speak. It’s difficult. Everything’s been done. This story is basically someone else’s, but I’m changing it. It’s difficult writing it also as it’s very personal. It involves many of my deepest feelings. But hopefully I’m not that amazingly different from everyone else so it’ll be relatable and then not just “me.” So it’s a risk. However, I can only write about what I know. Anything else would be pretentious. I can’t tell a story about people who live in worlds I’m not familiar with on some kind of level. My academic background in politics and sociology could prove useful, perhaps. I could imaging a society that is, say, completely Libertarian or communist. And then imagine how those ideologies and way of life way affect the inhabitants yada yada yada, but they’d still need a purpose, something to drive them, something to haunt them; a personal struggle to overcome and resolve.

I don’t really do post modern, I’m conservative like that.

Characters interacting, colliding, loving, fucking, cheating throwing everything up in the air and picking up the pieces etc. It’s just I haven’t lived enough yet to tell that story. I don’t know the people I want to write about. It would be disingenuous to try.

I comfort myself with the fact that I’m always on the lookout. I like to look at people and imagine in my head how I would describe them. How would I actually describe this living thing in front of me with all manner of idiosyncrasies in a way that would adequately capture the essence of what I’m seeing but at the same time do it in a way that is engaging, lively and interesting on a purely semantic and aesthetic level to the reader.

Madness.

The skeleton’s done and some of the meat is there but it still needs work. Writers take months on short stories. This is why I sometimes feel I’m not doing it right. I just write, correct the spelling and grammar that I see, and publish it.

Bang.

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