What fiction means to me? I can sort of say I know and I don’t. I know that it means a way of expressing myself and the many voices inside of me that otherwise would remain stifled or deformed for the rest of my life. It means a chance to say what I might not have yet gained the courage to try in real life, or the way I wish something would turn out so heartache wouldn’t be inevitable.

Too many people see it as just writing a story. My own opinion is that it’s much more. Maybe more than what we think it is. I know it creates worlds where others can live temporarily when their life is spiraling out of control or their brilliant thoughts have gone awry.

Maybe it’s easier to understand when you have something to compare it to. The following is the excerpt from the depths of my mind concerning a fictional character I’ve yet to quite define.

Blog Entry: Unnamed.
Great. I don’t even know if I’m spelling this right. What am I supposed to write about? I totally hate this whole thing. I don’t want to go around telling people about myself and what I do and what I write, is really, none of their business. Wonderful, my English teacher would have a field day with all this horrible grammar. I can’t say that I would complain. Though it would be so easy, I can’t see myself as a whiner. They say if you can’t see yourself as something, chances are you aren’t and can never be. I wonder if that’s like the writer/artist thing. You know, they say if you write you can’t draw, but isn’t writing just like drawing except with words and all of your imagination? There isn’t really a write or a rong. Or is there? Nah, don’t answer that. I really don’t need more answers today. It’s been that kind of a whacked out week. My fave sentence as I practially own it-I can’t say that I really care. Too many crazy things have happened for me to just ignore the way this has all been climbing. Feels like a cliff, or that story thing where there’s the little eagles or something and they go up to the edge and they’re looking over and the edge and thinking how far down it is. (I think) and then the big eagle (a teacher, no doubt or some crazy flight instructor-wierd) comes up to them and tells them to go right to the very edge and they say that they’re afraid. It tells them to go anyway and when they do, It pushes them right off the edge and they fly. That’s a fairly accurate description of my life right now. Except for I’ve been falling a long time and I think someone clipped my wings before they threw me over the edge. Heh. Care to share a laugh? Nevermind. I gotta go.


That’s about all I have for this piece. It’s floating around in my head and I see the writer as a girl-sort of. I’m not really sure. I’d love an opinion or suggestion on this piece.

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