Stuff is like other stuff.
Life is like two marmosets in leotards hopped up on sap, raiding the Museu Paraense Emílio Goeldi for ancestral wisdom teeth after having stolen a Kleines Kettenkraftrad HK 101 from a former Fallschirmjäger officer on the lam in South America.
Written, it sounds fabulous, but how the hell can a German paratrooper successfully smuggle a tracked motorbike across the Atlantic. I do not know. Does it matter? Did you google Museu Paraense Emílio Goeldi, Kleines Kettenkraftrad HK 101, or Fallschirmjäger? That does not matter either.
In the end, I wasn’t really describing life at all. Instead, I am forcing you to visualize two marmosets cruising through rural Brazil on a ridiculously inappropriate vehicle on a quest for vestigial artifacts that do not exist. If you feel inclined to make some imaginative connection between life and a surrealistic drug-hazed road trip, then I suppose that is just a lucky bonus for me as a writer.
I prefer not to be direct. I prefer not to traumatize or zombify a reader with the obvious.
I am never going to assume that a reader knows anything about anything. I will never begin generalized statements with amateurish drivel like “As humans we…” or “A real artist is…” or “People think…”
Misdirection is my palette, and I balance it on a wooden stool I constructed by hand from the jungles of funky train music. I use a brush made from fine cat whiskers – not pulled, mind you, no, I waited centuries for each whisker to fall of its own accord. My canvas? Stretched dough. Because in the end, I want my work to say “Eat me”.
I strive to give a reader mental indigestion. I want to be the avocado you cannot eat without severe abdominal cramps, but you eat anyway. If you’d rather have tofu, go read some Nicholas Sparks and call me after the words “misspent” and “cranial” begin to gnaw at your consciousness through the haze of another empty party thrown by your vapid and ineffectual friends.
When writing, I try to exorcise the demons of tradition from the creative conglomerates of my imagination. It has nothing to do with being “new” or “fresh” or “cutting edge” or “avant-garde” or “Andrianampoinimerina-ish”. I walk in the fashion that I feel most comfortable, but I dress like a man confused by clothing and color. Likewise, I enjoy the story told in a random fashion that exudes purpose only through the twisted perspective I apply to my version of the human condition; I write like a drunkard, confused by litmus paper and tweed.
It is difficult for me to tell people what I write. No human approaches me with that question truly wanting to experience what I write through the act of actually reading what I write. They might as well ask, “describe the method by which you defecate”. I do not think about it. I do not rigidly document the extent and disposition of my creative excretions.
Trust in the fact that I simply write so that you might read, and later that you may take from the experience of having read me the sense of having replaced a portion of your life that would have been otherwise spent on racquetball, ginger tea, or being a heinous consumer, with having read something written without your comfort in mind.
I find myself existing in world where the written word holds more sway than it ever has. The success of trolls is dependent only upon your propensity, or lack thereof, to ignore the art of experience. The business world is a warzone, and this war is like three Butler-class destroyer escorts engaged in maneuvers against a flock of swans. It looks prettier when your perspective is within close range of the swans. A swan cannot sink a battleship, unless they cheat with mirrors.
Nothing will ever be as good as it might have been, because the key to winning the war against the intelligent consumer is brainwashing their foot soldiers, the grunts, the frontliners with nothing lose, berserker hybrids of coupon cutting maniacs and the status-symbol ampersands. Advertising abandoned the aerial campaign when neon was outgunned by LED. This is war in the trenches again, and the no-man’s-land of individualism is filled with mines. Happy Formula Day, ye twigs!
And how does that relate? You have to sell your work to yourself in the same fashion the corporation sells you last decade’s gadgets. The difference? You are your own ad men, and you are your own middle man, and you are your own troll on a roll in a forum reserved for roleplay discussions.
I will never beg for your patronage, because I run a black market reverberatory furnace out of the garage of my wasted ideas. While I agree with the concept of the indomitable artist, I propose that no man is a juggler without a set of balls.
Face-melting through reflection – take that von Humboldt.