Fiction Writing Feels More Honest

I'd Trapped Myself In A Script.... But To Be Scripted At All Is To Be Prepackaged, Programmed, Pinned To A Page. Only The Unwritten Can Truly Live A Life. So Who I Was, What I Was, Had To Be Unwritten.

Everybody Gets Jolted. You, Me, Before We Die We’ll All Get Nailed, Lots Of Times. But That Doesn’t Mean We’ll Get Turned Into Witches. You Can’t Avoid Getting Zapped, But You Can Avoid Passing The Mean Energy On. That’s The Interesting Thing About Witches, The Challenge Of Them-- Learning Not To Hit Back, Or Hit Somebody Else, When They Zap You. You Can Bury The Zap, For Instance, Like The Gods Buried The Titans In The Center Of The Earth. Or You Can Be Like A River When A Forest Fire Hits It--phshhhhhhhhhhhh! Just Drown It, Drown All The Heat And Let It Wash Away.

In A Head-on Collision With Fanatics, The Real Problem Is Always The Same: How Can We Possibly Behave Decently Toward People So Arrogantly Ignorant That They Believe, First, That They Possess Christ's Power To Bestow Salvation, Second, That Forcing Us To Memorize And Regurgitate A Few Of Their Favorite Bible Phrases And Attend Their Church Is That Salvation, And Third, That Any Discomfort, Frustration, Anger Or Disagreement We Express In The Face Of Their Moronic Barrages Is Due Not To Their Astounding Effrontery But To Our Sinfulness?

And So I Learned What Solitude Really Was. It Was Raw Material - Awesome, Malleable,older Than Men Or Worlds Or Water. And It Was Merciless - For It Let A Man Become Precisely What He Alone Made Of Himself.

At Last The Cold Crept Up My Spine; At Last It Filled Me From Foot To Head; At Last I Grew So Chill And Desolate That All Thought And Pain And Awareness Came To A Standstill. I Wasn't Miserable Anymore: I Wasn't Anything At All. I Was A Nothing-- A Random Configuration Of Molecules. If My Heart Still Beat I Didn't Know It. I Was Aware Of One Thing Only; Next To The Gaping Fact Called Death, All I Knew Was Nothing, All I Did Meant Nothing, All I Felt Conveyed Nothing. This Was No Passing Thought. It Was A Gnawing, Palpable Emptiness More Real Than The Cold.