Time to Grow Up!
As usual, this post started out being too personal -- me saying more than I needed to about what isn’t working for me as a writer. Me digging into my childhood looking for answers. I’m sick of that. And I’m totally aware of the fact that I luuuuv feeling sorry for myself. I’m sick of that, too. I want to grow up! I’m ready. No more of the overwhelmed child in my fiction, and childish characters that are actually very old men and wise. Well, at least as old as I am, and as wise as a couple times around the block’ll make ya. Shit! If I ever write another story where I have to decide between using mom, or momma, or mama… just shoot me! Put me out of my misery! I had loving parents who were quite normal as a unit, which means they yelled and fought with each other from time to time. I mean, that’s as bad as it got. They did nothing to deserve a writer son like me. And if it ever got worse than them yelling at each other, ever(I may have repressed some stuff, but I'm unaware.), I can't see it, which means I don’t care even if they did beat me, which they didn't, I don't think. I pretty sure. Life goes on. Life went on and I have a whole pack of problems that are all my own. What the fuck am I still doing writing stories with adolescent characters? You go too deep that way, and the next thing you know the stories become complex, incestuous, lots of yearning for momma's thighs… what else is there to do with a boy story bereft of adventure? Literary boy stories – yuck! I’m done with that shit. Momma, mom, ma, mama, you’ve suffered long enough, though you have no clue (she stopped reading me years ago.). Dad, I may rake the loving memory of you through the coals a few times, but only because I’m ready to become a man. Ya, baby! Plots, here I come!
(nb, I’m actually working on this great story at the moment about a boy who grew up screwy because his parents did it nightly and noisily and the walls were really thin. BUT THATS IT! That's the last one!)