The writing Thing



I postponed this for way too long.
Beforehand I needed to find something.
I lost it. It still has to be somewhere around here. It was very dear to me and ahh… There it is.
It is time for some pomp and splendour.



As of now I did not vanquish my problem with commitment.
Even those types of commitment, I chose to improve myself with, are on the wrong side of the trenches. The causes are as eclectic as disturbing and fascinating, but not of importance today.
They will most certainly transform into words one day and all of you can cherish my chaotic inner life a bit further. But for now:


Let’s get it on!


Wait a minute. Get on what?




You could incontrovertibly argue, that I already am blogging, writing and doing all that fabulous nonsense.
The problem at hand is not the writing in itself. The continuation of it more so.
I had to answer some questions. Accountable to none but myself and my pretensions, I had to reassure myself of my intention and also motivation.
I apparently venerate words and have an indeterminate talent in messing with them and these two reasons should be sufficient for me to want to stick to it.
Be that as it may obstacles are still existent and I cannot disregard or evade them.


The reason I stopped writing.


I perennially believed I was good at writing stories up to the age of ten.
Fifth grade, first essay, topic: short stories.
The marks came in and mine was a three minus (C-).
I immediately confronted my teacher about it, asked:”Why did I get such a bad grade?”, and clarified:”I really thought I could write stories.”
The answer describes a scholarly career with a perfect mood of dejection: “That is, simply put, not the way you should write a story.”


Confused minion


Well, fuck me dead! That is all it fucking took. All it needed, to prevent me from writing anything coming from my self, was this statement?
Flying flags in decisiveness, a sagging pennant in perseverance and a sensitive kid.

Not only did my self-assurance regarding this matter wavered, I did not only end my tentative steps in compiling my vague concept of alternative realities, not only the imaginary idiocy my faculty of imagination produced over the years. No, each and every last aspect of writing became completely irrelevant to me, due to only one sentence.
Why should I bother? My way was not the way one writes. One of the all-knowing caste passed judgement.


Mmh, this straitjacket is surprisingly comfy.


Luckily times are changing.

A few months ago I rediscovered some perks the power of imagination brings with it.
Revitalizing my phantasies into meaning is an extremely challenging, yet rewarding process. It granted a perception of my own memories, that was completely innovative to me. I can let a thought pass before it intensifies and sticks.
I hate it, when it comes down to this, but I am/was such an ineffable arrogant, that I am/was not able to classify one single strain of thought as “unimportant”.
Having huge, bursting folders named “rethink” and “genius”, does not fill the “unimportant” one. Which was not only unimportant, but an unused directory.


Alonso and me – Brothers in spirit


I cannot describe how much fun building castles out of clouds is and what it does for my abilities in concentration and information processing.
First I started writing short stories again, as some of you might have noticed. Any situation, any protagonist, anything. I just throw them in, put on the mixer and it unfolds.
I am now building dreams and lives of people who are not me. Well of course they are me, but somehow they are also not. I can make them believe in anything I want. I can make them follow a road, I invented five minutes earlier. I create aspirations and longings, anger and apprehension for strangers. Traits I observed are adjusted and transferred into made-up characters. They are coming to life through black and white.
Despite and sometimes in between all those rants, I try out a lot of different styles, forms and varieties of writing.

Next challenge? Shotgun vs. fish sticks.

Like hunting fish in a barrel. I start and afterwards am amazed what chance has brought me today for dinner.
Indeed a fish still, but you’ll never predict its magnitude.



The exhausting.


There are unfortunate, negative aspects to it.
I have to read a lot. Your stuff for the most part.
Don’t get me wrong. I like reading it. The amount of valuable input is overwhelming. In this few weeks I already found several very interesting personalities and in return some have found me.
I would enjoy reading each and every last article, but my state of personality and the sheer time it would consume, denies such endeavours.
Even if I may only get a glimpse of a very minor part of your personality, getting to know others via the Internet is consuming. Consuming for me in more ways than most can imagine.


This Blog is here to stay.

A world of disorderly notions, picked out of his books, crowded into his imagination


Balance is the only thing I need to establish myself.

Guess, what I possess none of!


So I added the second object to my barrel-list. Not even close to the audaciousness of going to space, but what can I do?
I am a man of coequally trivial and colossal ambition.



Stand upright,




4 responses to “The writing Thing

  1. Well, I am glad you are here to stay. Your teacher sounds like a biatch–she was a grade school instructor, who the hell is she to tell you “the way” to write a story. Pssshhh bitter harpie.

Get to my head!

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