There was a story, by Gaiman, in the collection Fragile Things called Forbidden Brides of the Faceless Slaves in the Secret House of the Night of Dread Desire. (There are no insignificant titles.) Long story (well, short story, actually, but who’s keeping score?) short: it’s an answer to escapism critique. About a fellah who lives in a fantastic realm, who tires of writing realism and so turns to fantasy. Except in his world a tale of whimsy turns to the kitchen of a lofty suburban home.
It just goes to show where imagination can lead, if you let it.
Of course it also makes me want to live in an imaginary world. A fairy tale, perhaps. Interesting thought, though, isn’t it? That a fairy tale can be mundane, and burned toast is exciting and different and entirely noteworthy.
So what, when you’re only slightly blocked and mostly just unsure of what idea to choose to expand upon, do you pick? Do you write what you know in terms of what you’ve read (fantasy/faerie) or in terms of what you’ve lived? Mudanity or whimsy?
(This is ridiculously incoherent. I’m completely out of practise, and I apologize. Life’s been . . . interesting.)
In other news: I quit the writing group. I’m really not ready for that, right now. Or, at least, that’s what I’m telling myself right now. I feel both inadequate when I compare myself (my first problem) with the other members, and I tire of having one man’s work placed upon a pedestal as the example of what short fiction should be. So, I’ll go it alone. I figure it’ll work, as long as I can remember to actually sit down and write. We’ll see. As long as someone remembers to pester me once or twice a month, I should be fine.
Ron White. He’s amazing.