HEY HAVE YOU NOTICED I HAVEN'T BLOGGED RECENTLY? What's funny is I'm averaging fifty hits a day not-blogging. Weird.
I've been creativity-stricken for about a month, or at least writing-stricken (not blocked, stricken), although even creativity (&c.)-stricken I wrote one or two cool stories and edited one or two hot tales that were in need of my needle-brush. There are a lot of reasons for my auctorial seizure, but I have already written six or seven blog posts in an attempt to explain them all and find it an unpossible task. My internal life is an ineffable force, folks. Ineffable.
The gist of the outcome is that I no longer wish to follow the Heinlein model - an equation expanded upon by writing teachers like Dean Wesley Smith, David Farland, and Kevin J. Anderson (and then utilized by me) - because even though it has brought me tremendous success and ability, I don't think it has fostered happiness. Actually, it has, because it made me write awesome stuff and submit it and get it published and developed my confidence to a level where I am confident. But Fictionalist Extremism is no longer the sort of extremism I wish to follow (mostly because I'm sick of dogging myself about writing and would rather just, uh, enjoy it? I guess).
I could also argue that this method has not fostered creativity, although in a lot of ways it has; but specifically my focus on production has left no room to pause and meditate and theorize about what kinds of fiction I would actually like to produce. If I'm being perfectly frank, I have never and never will read any of the authors I have until this time taken as role models for my own writerly behaviour. And then I look at, say, China Miéville's blog, and, like, I don't understand. And I want that. I want to be... ununderstandable.
Probably not the kind of thing that can be striven for, probably the kind of idea I'll abandon tomorrow (because I'm not a terribly fascinating, deep, or interesting person), but okay, alright, whatever, I'm better than that, jeez leave me alone.
Anyway, general malaise caused great burps and hiccoughs in my writing output and my ability to write regularly, so now I am just writing fragments. Fragments! Fractals. In miniature they replicate me in macro! At least one a day, always a different story/subject, usually hopefully something not in third-person limited point of view (for God's sake). The purpose? To make me more creative, hopefully more interesting, hopefully less bored with writing.
Also probably going to try and write a metal EP with the theme, Hard as Schist. (It's "rawk and lawl," as it were.)
In this turn of events I would say I am mostly inspired by some of the essays and writings appearing in the anthology "The New Weird" by Ann and Jeff VanderMeer, Rahul Kanakia, who always talks about how he basically just diddles around and then comes out with amazing stories, and a series of articles by Nick Mamatas appearing at BookLifeNow.com: "Against Craft" and "Against Story." There's also "Against Professionalism," but that one is so lame.
It's actually really good and I'm just failing to be ironic.
Alright! Creative fragmentation.