Creative Control

Miscellaneous Mental Musings of an Emerging Artist

The unattainable is unknown.

Dramatic writing is the easiest way to destroy the simplicity of reality at face value. Ever since college, where for reasons I occasionally question, I was given a degree in Creative Writing, I have been unable to appreciate what is in front of me merely as what it is, in front of me. This paper clip does not just hold paper together, it is a metaphor for the kind of person I need in my life, who holds my various pieces (facets) of paper (personality) together. Everything becomes symbol and idea, thematic element, character trait. Any idiot, I say, can write a story about a man who crosses the street to get a bagel; because I am oh-so-clever and oh-so-witty, the man is in fact also embarking on a treacherous voyage across his own soul, where he hopes to find spiritual nourishment. Perhaps the man is trying to determine if he should confess his hit-and-run crime of several weeks previous, and that by doing so, he will no longer hunger for peace. Note that the idea of the man crossing a road is a tangential theme to the idea of a hit-and-run accident. Note that the bagel is shaped like a wheel. If I am going for comedic irony, the man will be hit by a car as he crosses the street.

Over-analysis is the cheap liquor of writers. It comes in a box and is on sale next to bad beer.

At any strategy game that requires management of an increasing number of resources, I fail miserably, I lose track of older details, I mismanage the newer ones. In games that are based on real-time combat simulations, I must either strike hard and fast or prepare to be overrun as I lose sight of my growing legions.

Lately, then, I have also been considering the ways in which I have lost sight of friends and acquaintances. I still remember them, I still like them, so why have we stopped communicating? Are we really that perpetually busy, that it’s the only excuse we can come up with when we next speak? Other people are the most precious resource we have; why do I find myself squandering them? Why haven’t I spoken to some people in months, why is my best friend’s Live Journal the best method I utilize to keep updated on how he’s doing? What’s wrong with me?

Maya Angelou has said that human beings, at their best, can only create opportunities. I feel I have created opportunities and not used them, which is worse than never having created them at all. I feel I have insulted the opportunity, whose only reason for being is to be taken. An opportunity that is not taken becomes a regret, and brother, when you are also cursed with a good memory, you become the welfare state for all the regrets you’ve made. Your mind becomes the ghetto of lost chances, your inner emotions suddenly have an inner city.

I have a feeling that the above analogy is vaguely racist. It certainly isn’t my intention to be so, but I can’t think of any other way to describe it. I think not of regrets in the form of black people, but in the form of gray people, beings that could have been something more, but instead are impoverished and hungry but cannot die. I am the mayor of my entire mind, and I must be willing to face the failures, to face the housing projects where all my regrets scramble for purchase, because my own mismanagement has put them there.

Awfully thoughtful entry today. To lighten the mood, I direct people here, and tell them to turn their speakers up.


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This entry was posted on June 19, 2001 by in Thoughts, Writing.
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