Losing or never having the plot
Paul has been telling me I need more plot in my writings. Make something up.
I think that to develop a plot requires us to be part of a larger action, be part of a community, be a member of a team, a religion, a political persuasion: have certain actions in reality that we can draw from and then a vivid unrestrained imagination as well?
However authors who draw on their imaginations tend to imagine a similar set of worlds and plots: whether they write crime, thrillers, romance, etc and once they start writing in these genres they find it quite impossible to break free from the fetter. And it probably pays well too to change a style?
Writers who write Literature may use their life as a vehicle for their voice as they usually have a fairly interesting varied lives or they are crazy enough to imagine wide reaching and complex plots.
From my POV I have been gradually receding from public life since 1999(is this acrophobia) and therefore am not in this current that flows through many peoples lives to give them ideas; what have I left to pluck narrative from? I am also not one to invent either as I can't think that far ahead and usually anything I imagine sounds empty and untrue when I read it back.
Presently I am a daisy languidly nodding in the twilight and closing its red tinged head on the banks of a mysterious, deep and wide river that contains all the world's beings who are fucking, talking, rapping, raging, unwrapping, raping, lingering, murdering, singing and screaming their desires out. You bastards why won't you let me swim the same way?
I abused my body a long time ago...
I remember shitting myself at school because I couldn't go to the toilet in private; the toilet had no lock on the doors in year 3 of St James' (or any of the toilet doors until the last few years). It was the first time I'd ever had a bowel movement outside the usual home environment, that I was aware of. It was all highly irregular, I guess, for my peers seeing someone using the toilet to defecate? A fair few children barracked the door which prevented me from doing this job properly. As I said the toilet had no lock on the door, but it
also had a porthole window and no way for me to block the door to keep them at bay. I recall having to go home due to this accident but I don't recall my mother or father picking me up: I must have been at most 7 and more likely 6. Did I walk home with that accident in my pants all on my own? Perhaps one of my elder step siblings collected me? No idea. However I don't recall it having too much affect on my relationships at the school the next day or in the future and I wonder if any of my school friends would still remember today? There were a number of children with problems at that time: I certainly remember a lad had problems dressing himself at that age, and another fainted a lot, and another always smelt slightly of urine, and one used to bite his forefinger in anguish and anger so I guess a lot of my peers had other things to be worried about?
I am terrified to descend into self pity, but I'm finding it so hard suddenly.
Those writings I composed in Croatia, Slovenia and Italy were very lonely. It was a month of separation from humanity, apart from occasional brave chance grabbed conversations with Lena Bauhaus, Renee de Nazelle or Fraulein Michelle, which has perhaps left me with this quiet, introspective and humbler side. It feels that my old verboseness has not been present for years and wained that September. It is like the more I fail the more difficult I find it to bridge the verbal gap between me and the world and as a result I more often run and hide whenever I feel unsafe and unsteady. Am I staring at my own conclusion: am I the other side of my life's peak and coming back down to nothing?
I know I am now really shy, but am I always going to be this shy or is it a phobia for which there are some treatments? I am considerably socially inept and socially anxious at most times, and when under observation that is what all the practitioners have recorded, but those sessions of CBT were meant to elevate this problem by making me more assertive in relationships, seeing problems, challenging them head on and dealing with them swiftly.
Instead I am ruminating. Its like I can't see along a dark, misty, murky path and dare not walk along it for fear of something terrifying chasing me.
I think that to develop a plot requires us to be part of a larger action, be part of a community, be a member of a team, a religion, a political persuasion: have certain actions in reality that we can draw from and then a vivid unrestrained imagination as well?
However authors who draw on their imaginations tend to imagine a similar set of worlds and plots: whether they write crime, thrillers, romance, etc and once they start writing in these genres they find it quite impossible to break free from the fetter. And it probably pays well too to change a style?
Writers who write Literature may use their life as a vehicle for their voice as they usually have a fairly interesting varied lives or they are crazy enough to imagine wide reaching and complex plots.
From my POV I have been gradually receding from public life since 1999(is this acrophobia) and therefore am not in this current that flows through many peoples lives to give them ideas; what have I left to pluck narrative from? I am also not one to invent either as I can't think that far ahead and usually anything I imagine sounds empty and untrue when I read it back.
Presently I am a daisy languidly nodding in the twilight and closing its red tinged head on the banks of a mysterious, deep and wide river that contains all the world's beings who are fucking, talking, rapping, raging, unwrapping, raping, lingering, murdering, singing and screaming their desires out. You bastards why won't you let me swim the same way?
I abused my body a long time ago...
I remember shitting myself at school because I couldn't go to the toilet in private; the toilet had no lock on the doors in year 3 of St James' (or any of the toilet doors until the last few years). It was the first time I'd ever had a bowel movement outside the usual home environment, that I was aware of. It was all highly irregular, I guess, for my peers seeing someone using the toilet to defecate? A fair few children barracked the door which prevented me from doing this job properly. As I said the toilet had no lock on the door, but it
also had a porthole window and no way for me to block the door to keep them at bay. I recall having to go home due to this accident but I don't recall my mother or father picking me up: I must have been at most 7 and more likely 6. Did I walk home with that accident in my pants all on my own? Perhaps one of my elder step siblings collected me? No idea. However I don't recall it having too much affect on my relationships at the school the next day or in the future and I wonder if any of my school friends would still remember today? There were a number of children with problems at that time: I certainly remember a lad had problems dressing himself at that age, and another fainted a lot, and another always smelt slightly of urine, and one used to bite his forefinger in anguish and anger so I guess a lot of my peers had other things to be worried about?
I am terrified to descend into self pity, but I'm finding it so hard suddenly.
Those writings I composed in Croatia, Slovenia and Italy were very lonely. It was a month of separation from humanity, apart from occasional brave chance grabbed conversations with Lena Bauhaus, Renee de Nazelle or Fraulein Michelle, which has perhaps left me with this quiet, introspective and humbler side. It feels that my old verboseness has not been present for years and wained that September. It is like the more I fail the more difficult I find it to bridge the verbal gap between me and the world and as a result I more often run and hide whenever I feel unsafe and unsteady. Am I staring at my own conclusion: am I the other side of my life's peak and coming back down to nothing?
I know I am now really shy, but am I always going to be this shy or is it a phobia for which there are some treatments? I am considerably socially inept and socially anxious at most times, and when under observation that is what all the practitioners have recorded, but those sessions of CBT were meant to elevate this problem by making me more assertive in relationships, seeing problems, challenging them head on and dealing with them swiftly.
Instead I am ruminating. Its like I can't see along a dark, misty, murky path and dare not walk along it for fear of something terrifying chasing me.
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