Sunday, September 21, 2014

On Why I Would (or do considering on how you look at it) suck at Writing Fiction


I’m a very routine orientated person, at-least for the things that I like to do “professionally” namely writing.  Every time I write, I type the title, a dash underneath, a space, two dashes underneath that, and then I either insert between the single dash and double dashes material that I want to get across in the essay or I simply begin typing.  I at-times try to be funny, or occasionally am conscious of my writing style, but most of the time it’s simply my expounding on a certain idea, philosopher or movie – very-likely all three are involved.
I’m very explicit, and though one of the main reasons I love movies, novels and smartly-written television is subtlety and implicit statements in the story making it substantive, I don’t seem to have the quality to create it myself.  If I wrote a novel, it probably would turn out like an Ayn Rand novel – well, maybe not that bad, but I think you get the point.  There’s a kind of quiet brilliance in making great art and stories that for whatever reason I lack.  I don’t have the patience to create settings, descriptions, characters, narrations, backdrops for the plot to take place in etc.  I’m someone who simply enjoys thinking over philosophical material, either “in a vacuum” or regarding something I just saw or read, and then type about it.  I write steadily, creating at-least one essay a week, but that’s because of the very simple nature of my writing.  Even if I’m writing something that (at-least to me) is very erudite and complex, my prose is simple expounding on the topic at hand – and once again this is what separates me from an artist.  I respect and admire great artists; Orwell (though he’s rather explicit with what he’s stating which is one reason why he’s my favorite novelist), Steinbeck, Camus, all these people manage to weave together something that can be enjoyed completely divorced from a intellectual message or analogy, and yet they have some of the most profound things a person could say.
Art is a rather fascinating and at-times seemingly counter-productive phenomena when you think about it, isn’t it?  Human beings evolved to have reasoning being advantageous for tool-building, agriculture, animal husbandry among other things, all of which require some degree of explicit or scientific thought.  They had to think, “sharp rock better at killing buffalo than dull rock, and rock on stick makes easier to kill buffalo” or “make good strong cow mate with good strong steer; make good strong calves” which of course didn’t happen immediately but was a process that took a surprisingly long time (it’s been estimated it took over one-hundred thousand generations of man using tools before controlling fires, another twenty thousand until writing came to be but only two-hundred-and-fifty generations until man set foot on the moon) of observing, making connections and making rudimentary tools and eventual improvements based on those observations.  Art is in some ways the opposite.  There’s a scientific methodology involved, and the line of thinking to hone one’s craft is similar to a science, but the artistic impulse is not to understand or solve a problem or task like building fire or how to kill the buffalo, but a matter of self-expression and creativity for its own sake.  I can’t do that.  Though as an Existentialist (in some sense) I realize that the Universe is purposeless I’m still very purpose-driven; and though I enjoy what I do, I think this is also the main distinction between the scientific or “rationalist” mind and the Hedonist one – art being Creative Hedonism and Hedonism in its highest and most productive neurological state; or rather the “selfish” compulsion to do something of no rational benefit for one’s self or society at its highest-state.  There seems to be some carnal, primal quality behind art that a more rationalist mind like myself cannot seem to duplicate – only appreciate.  This is usually when I would mention Freud or Kant’s theory on aesthetics, but instead I wanted to write this simply as a small reflection on the nature of art, appreciation of artists and a short admittance of something I’m lacking in despite my ultimate and undeniable greatness and perfection.

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