Peaches

I once read a piece by Joan Didion. Labeled the same  name, as is the piece by George Orwell "Why I write". She speaks of her visual integrity and how she sees a "shimmer" around that which gives her inspiration. What struck me as odd was that she meant it in a literal sense. Now I was surprised at this at first. How can someone, a writer no less, be famous, or even well known for that matter, with no creative drive? But as I read on and on, I realized exactly what she meant. Probably.

She spoke of her troubles, trying to think, trying to write stories with no drive. The feeling is all too familiar for another writer such as myself. Seeing an image, desperately finding some form of story behind it. Seeking all but seeing so little. In a desperate attempt you write the scene, the physical, hoping the purpose of the scene will come forth, but alas it still hides.

I have experienced this everywhere. Seeing scenes I wish to incorporate into some form of short story or envisioning a character. Yet the scene never arises to the challenge. So you stick with the physical, the literal. The view, the scents, sounds, what makes sense to you. It showed me that sometimes you, even the writer, have no control over the direction of a scene, of a story. You don't create the story, it creates you. It tells itself to you. You are the messenger, armed with pen in hand, a servant to the blasphemous entity, that forces itself upon you.

Why do I write?
A Perfect Idea Indeed

My name is Mel, a fulltime piece of shit :D I'm most known here for my story Lived in Reality, which has been postponed, indefinitely. I will be recreating it, with a more stable, creative mind than that of my 14 year old self who created this idea. If you need me, please do not hesitate to message me either here or on my tumblr.

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