justwrite 4 november

It’s not just the characters, is it. It’s not enough for them to have claimed the right names and have shamed you into offering theme attributes, but there’s more to compute. It’s under dispute to refute all advances in such a direction, but it’s true that protection in a bubble is a troubling development to have sent to any character. There must be some trouble, some sharp edges instead of down comforters. What’s worse is the fake conflict, where no one cares about the outcomes, where we’re run around to collect details, but we still fail to be interested. Getting fed up with getting fed nothing is easy enough to fix if there’s a spoon in the broth. Be willing to cough up a trouble or two and the truth will get set free or a remedy will rudely brew itself into health. Maybe it’s internal, that infernal sort of worry that can’t be hurried and can’t be explained, only renamed as hunger or fatigue, or some other known entity. These are the darkest parts in which to park the focus, where the hocus pocus don’t shine, where the invisible lines chime in with those sink-or-swim whims threading in and out of thread, with doubts we’ve all met before on scores of occasions. External is the boiling-over into action and reaction, gaining traction with each snag, knocking down a dragout flashdown, the crown and the belt being felt to be deserved by the hardest-hitting champion with the steeliest of nerves. And I will tell you, friend, if by the end, these issues are not handed tissues and dealt with through fists or some other twists of fate, of late-to-arrive solutions with gently foreshadowed contributions, then may you be helped by some generous power in an omnipotent hour, heeding your needs and riding a white and noble steed to rescue you from your readers, those sweet bottom-feeders who only get to see what you’re pleased to share from thin air to the charity that seems to be writing fiction—feeding others’ addition to living lives that are not their own. We cannot own each and every fact of these lives collapsed into convenient relief in the known-to-be-mistaken belief that these beings are only existent between these covers, that any number of them instantly perish when the page ends. It’s not a deep-end sort of jump-in to realize that we love surprise and also the inevitable sometimes but our hearts tend to chime at seeing problems solved. I can’t resolve my own situations, but through some fictional conversations I can draw enough connections to reckon that my deals could really be salvageabley approachable, too. I don’t need pancakes or panache to catch all my mistakes, but it takes a lot of dashing hopes to scope out a low point from which to gather advice from some character named after a spice, or even a country, as far as that goes. We do our best, but we only suppose there are too few options—fiction offers alternate theories up for adoption, should we choose to subscribe. But if there’s no issue to which to ascribe a solution, there’s no identification with a simply not-to-be resolution.