Few things satisfy me more than fiction writing – immersing myself in a world I've created, playing with imaginary people prone to deviant behavior. Fiction writing fuels me. It fills me with a sense (read: delusions) of grandeur. It brings me to the brink of euphoria and sometimes beyond.
It also makes me really stupid and irresponsible... at least when it comes to life in the "real" world. I get so wrapped up in whatever story I'm working on, so engrossed in the lives of my characters, that I sometimes forget to do little things like feed my cats, bathe, change my clothes, eat, make friends, pay bills, accelerate when the light turns green, stop when the light turns red, kiss my wife, ground my daughter, or look for a good therapist.
Fictionally, I'm an omniscient force. In reality, I'm an inattentive idiot. Not surprisingly, this has taken its toll on my social life. It's hard for me to stay present in conversations with people talking about their jobs and their kids and their pets when I'm so used to spending time with fictional assassins, vigilantes and sociopaths. Just as I'm sure it's hard for people to stay present in conversations with me when I haven't bathed in three days and keep trying to steer the conversation toward effective murder methods.
If I continue to write fiction, I likely won't live past 55 or 60. I mean, one can only daydream so much near busy intersections before one’s luck runs out. Even if I manage not to get creamed on the roadway, my wife, Miranda, will probably leave me due to my lack of attentiveness, and thus I won't have anyone to remind me to take the pills I'll be prescribed for the heart and/or liver condition I'll undoubtedly develop after years of sitting on my ass writing and drinking.
You may be thinking, "Why don't you just quit writing, Greg? It's not like you're all that great at it." First of all, that's a very insensitive and rude thing to think. And impractical, too. You wouldn't expect bees to quit stinging even though it often results in their death. You wouldn't expect male black widow spiders to stop having sex even though their female mate tries to kill and eat them immediately afterward. So you shouldn’t expect a writer to give up writing just because it's going to cause him to die prematurely and probably alone. Writing is woven into my DNA. I simply don't know any better.
To be clear, sympathy is not what I'm seeking. The fact is I'm very fortunate to have found something besides vodka that I'm truly passionate about, and to be able to (almost) make a living doing that thing. Sure, I'll likely end up friendless, penniless, divorced and dead, but hey, you can't write about your cake and eat it, too.
So, I ask not for pity. I merely ask for a little understanding. If we are ever engaged in conversation and you sense my attention drifting, or I start talking about the best way to kill yourself or someone else, or you notice an unpleasant odor coming from my direction, please try not to be offended, frightened or repulsed. Try instead to simply remember I am a fiction writer, and that there's no known cure.
It also makes me really stupid and irresponsible... at least when it comes to life in the "real" world. I get so wrapped up in whatever story I'm working on, so engrossed in the lives of my characters, that I sometimes forget to do little things like feed my cats, bathe, change my clothes, eat, make friends, pay bills, accelerate when the light turns green, stop when the light turns red, kiss my wife, ground my daughter, or look for a good therapist.
Fictionally, I'm an omniscient force. In reality, I'm an inattentive idiot. Not surprisingly, this has taken its toll on my social life. It's hard for me to stay present in conversations with people talking about their jobs and their kids and their pets when I'm so used to spending time with fictional assassins, vigilantes and sociopaths. Just as I'm sure it's hard for people to stay present in conversations with me when I haven't bathed in three days and keep trying to steer the conversation toward effective murder methods.
If I continue to write fiction, I likely won't live past 55 or 60. I mean, one can only daydream so much near busy intersections before one’s luck runs out. Even if I manage not to get creamed on the roadway, my wife, Miranda, will probably leave me due to my lack of attentiveness, and thus I won't have anyone to remind me to take the pills I'll be prescribed for the heart and/or liver condition I'll undoubtedly develop after years of sitting on my ass writing and drinking.
You may be thinking, "Why don't you just quit writing, Greg? It's not like you're all that great at it." First of all, that's a very insensitive and rude thing to think. And impractical, too. You wouldn't expect bees to quit stinging even though it often results in their death. You wouldn't expect male black widow spiders to stop having sex even though their female mate tries to kill and eat them immediately afterward. So you shouldn’t expect a writer to give up writing just because it's going to cause him to die prematurely and probably alone. Writing is woven into my DNA. I simply don't know any better.
To be clear, sympathy is not what I'm seeking. The fact is I'm very fortunate to have found something besides vodka that I'm truly passionate about, and to be able to (almost) make a living doing that thing. Sure, I'll likely end up friendless, penniless, divorced and dead, but hey, you can't write about your cake and eat it, too.
So, I ask not for pity. I merely ask for a little understanding. If we are ever engaged in conversation and you sense my attention drifting, or I start talking about the best way to kill yourself or someone else, or you notice an unpleasant odor coming from my direction, please try not to be offended, frightened or repulsed. Try instead to simply remember I am a fiction writer, and that there's no known cure.
