It’s hard to be weird on the internet. There are guys eating shit, people on fire, women cutting off guy’s cocks.
People have begun finding what I write and dropping me emails telling me that I’m “dangerous”. I get comments like:
“Why did you do/write that?”
Or even better:
“How could you do/write such a thing? I consider you dangerous!”
It’s a statement to the blog mentality, I think. People read blogs and expect that what is written is somehow a true and accurate record of daily activities.
Well, there is that.
But, I write fiction. And this is a website, not a blawg. Blawgs invite comments. There is no comment section on my website. Welcome to something called “creativity”.
Now I’m called a dangerous writer.
Well, the Easy answer? Everyone seems to be living vicariously through other people in something called Blogs. Pronounced: “Blawgs”. It’s short for Web Logs like a daily journal, I suppose.
I’m a writer. What you are perceiving when you read my website takes place in your own head when you read the words I’ve assembled together.
I love that readers get really, really disturbed and think that I’m actually doing these things.
I like being surprised.
Well, maybe it is true.
Maybe I have done these things.
I like fiction. Mostly, my life lives so weird that it literally seems like fiction. But, in writing I occasionally take liberties.
I’m a writer.
It’s sort of like eating some butterscotch pudding at a friend’s house and then having your friend tell you: “Hey. I put ground glass into your dessert. Your intestines are gonn’a shred in about twenty minutes and you’ll die a horrible death. It’s going to hurt you real bad,” and it’s the truth.
But here it wouldn’t be real because… ?
Because I’m a writer.
I’ve written about a woman shooting a man in the face
Did I do that? Am I a woman who shot a man in the face?
I’ve written about a lunatic killing an entire family and all their guests at a party. A piece which I reworked. I originally wrote it years ago, the piece is called ‘Safari Night’
It’s on the internet. So, is it true? Did I actually viciously murder people and write about it in a blawg?
Some of what I write disturbs me. Do I stop writing it? I haven’t so far. That’s what I do. I’m a writer. I also like decaf coffee and befriending stray animals.
One of my readers wrote to me and called me a chronicler of the mundane. Look who was reading Raymond Carver, eh? If you want to say I write like Bukowski, or Ray Carver or even Hemingway, well hell go on and say it. I’m fine with that.
If my writing doesn’t move you, then I haven’t done my job. I’m
b o r i n g.
Toot Toot !
I used a bad word.
I get that a lot also.
The fat landed, smug ‘n snug with enriched, white bread crumbs, falling from the corners of their mouths (as if anything whole would need enriching), and too afraid to say cunt, nigger, cocksucker, spic or motherfucker.
But not too scared to lie about who they are.
Or to lie to themselves about who I am.
Remember, these are words you will read here. The action takes place in your imagination.
The words upset you? Hey, congratulations! You’ve found your very own imagination and you’re using it to be upset at me.
I’m okay with that.
(stepping down from the speech maker’s stage – with a sheepish grin)
Do I ‘rilly exist?
Who are you?
Have we met?
Maybe this might, then, be an introduction between us?
Sort of an illusion isn’t it, like something made up. I mean if you can’t actually see, taste, touch, hear, smell or…
…what am I leaving out?
Sounds a little like the internet, doesn’t it?
Pure imagination let’s call it.
Welcome to my playground.
I hope that my words will move you.