Fiction/Nonfiction

Fiction is escapism.  We watch movies and read works of fiction to relieve boredom, or to experience something happier or sadder than our own experience. We allow ourselves to get lost in fantasies or borderline realities, if only for a little while.

Nonfiction is escapism. We insulate ourselves with knowledge and factoids. We long to be part of something bigger than ourselves. And, let’s face it: it’s hard to pity ourselves for our first world problems when we discover how much worse off others in the world (or in history) actually are (or were).

Funny Girl?

I wish I could write funny stuff. Not just amusing stuff, not just a snappy one-liner, but the kind of short story/essay/novel that makes you ell oh ell. I don't get it. I'm a pretty funny person in real life. I hang out with a lot of funny people. Most of the movies and TV shows I like are comedies. My choice of reading material is a little more varied -- I can read a sad book much more easily than I can watch a sad movie -- so maybe that's the reason for the discrepency.

I guess the main thing at this point is that I keep writing. I have my laptop back after a brief hiatus, so that should make things a little bit easier. Not sure if I'll publish anything ever or not. My main focus at the moment is to actually finish something other than a blog entry.

Grappling With Forgiveness

I'm currently dealing with some issues pertaining to forgiveness in my personal life. This has led me to Scripture and prayer, and also to living my way through some tough questions. I know, for example, that Christians are commanded to forgive. If we forgive much we will be forgiven much, and if we forgive little we will be forgiven little. But let's say you're in the process of forgiving someone. They've hurt you, however unintentionally, in several different ways, and you find yourself, in your human frailty, only capable of forgiving one thing at a time. I want to believe that this is a decent start, that it's better than not forgiving at all. But is that how God will reward such forgiveness? If I only forgive gradually, will God only forgive me gradually? Or does God's greatness exceed that?

I'm also living through the question of reconciliation. If the offender is a brother in Christ, am  I morally obligated to reinstate the friendship once all issues of forgiveness have been dealt with? Or should I merely just wish such a person well and move on with my life? If the person has apologized for something specific, should I let them know that I've forgiven them? Or does that just seem holier-than-thou?

And So It Ends

With sadness on my end. With possible indifference on yours. With me wishing I could take everything back, yet fearing what else  I may be capable of saying. Knowing this is best for you. Hoping it's best for me. Knowing I will live through it, but wanting to sleep until I get to that point. Weary of your unkindness, of my unkindness, of man's inhumanity to man, of the cruel cliche that is hurting the ones we claim to love.

Dreamstuff

Yesterday, my friend Delmar reminded me of a pretty disturbing dream that I had back in college. I dreamed that I was at church, taking Communion, but olive juice was substituted for the usual grape. Even stranger, there were strippers in the dream. As agnostic as I felt in college, it was pretty creepy stuff.

I shared this bizarre dream with a handful of friends and relatives the next morning, and arrived at a few possible interpretations. Among them: that it was allegorical of hypocrisy within the church; that it represented my own guilt over my lack of faith; that it was a reminder that Jesus himself hung out with tax gatherers and sinners; that I ate some bad pizza that night.

I don't usually remember my dreams, but here, for your consideration, are a couple of other strange ones that I've had:

1. Right after my mom died, I dreamed that I heard a hissing noise coming from the bathroom. I looked under the sink to discover that the pipes were leaking water. Suddenly, the pipes jumped out from under the sink (I don't know how else to describe it) and started writhing like possessed snakes, spraying water everywhere. I ran screaming into the living room, where my mom was asleep on the couch. Then I remember she was dead...and she vanished before my eyes...and I woke up.

2. I had a nightmare last summer that two people I cared about very deeply were planning to commit suicide. Everyone knew somehow, but I was the only one who cared. The two people were busy during most of the dream tying up loose ends -- making phone calls, giving away personal possessions - -as casually as one might go about performing daily errands. One of them fastened a necklace around my neck at one point, causing me to scream in the dream, but not in real life.

I've always wondered if dreams always have a purpose, if they're always meant to be interpreted. If so, does it take a special spiritual gift (like Joseph had) or earthly knowledge (like Freud had)? Are some dreams from God, and others from the Enemy? Or is it all just a bunch of randomly firing neurons and subconscious shenanigans?

Fictional Character

His name is John Lennon Smith. Lenny to his friends. He was born the day that Lennon was shot, and, consequently, is somewhat obsessed with celebrity obituaries. Strange things happen to him when famous people die.

The author who is in the painstakingly slow process of creating him is female, around the same age as he would be, and wondering what is prompting her to write from the male perspective. Does she think it will be simpler? Less messy, perhaps? Her girl friends keep assuring her that men are simple creatures, but her experiences with them have taught her differently. Men can have layers...dark, hidden, sometimes frightening layers that mirror a darkness that she herself usually tries to outrun.

That's one theory, anyway, but perhaps our aspiring author needs to write about certain things with a healthy amount of fictional distance. Nothing too traumatic, mind you, but things that require handling with care.

Will our hero, Mr. Smith, whose surname begs to be changed, ever see life in print (or a free or cheaply self-published e-book)? Time will tell...

Fear of Writing #2

Sometimes I get fearful of saying the One Wrong Thing, like some sort of unforgiveable sin  of writing. I have no idea what that Thing is. I only know that, if and when I say it, everyone I care about will run scurrying away from me like cockroaches escaping a harsh and unflattering light. See, that's already a pretty bad metaphor...

What is It?

What is it about you that makes me say things that I would never say to anyone else? I ask you questions the way a four-year-old would ask their parents -- unfiltered, unthinking, with no sense of shame. What is it about you that breaks down all of my social graces, my sense of  decorum, my attempts at being diplomatic and polite? Some of things I've told you are dangerous, I know.  What is it about you that keeps you loyal, that keeps you coming back even when I've been cruel, even when I'm at my worst?