With writers, it seems the most prevalent way is to always keep a pen and paper nearby to quickly jot down what springs to mind. I don't like to do this, to be honest it's always frustrated me how long it takes me to get ideas down on paper (or a computer screen). I always put it down to nerves, like perhaps I think my idea wasn't good enough.
I've come to realise though, that it's more a personal preference. To me, scribbling something down as soon as it enters your head seems like a miscarriage of thought, as if it's not ready to come out yet. I mean, if we all just blurted out the first thing that came to mind, the world would be a pretty unpleasant place (just see how much Tourettes sufferers struggle).
Setting aside all religious reasons for the simple fact that I am not religious, I see no point to celebrate Christmas. Lots of non-religious people celebrate it, and they often come up with reasons why.
One of the main reasons is “well, it’s winter, everything is cold and dark, you might as well have something to celebrate, right?” I hate this reason. I mean, let me get this straight: it’s cold and dark, maybe five or six useful hours of daylight, everything is dead and it’s pretty miserable, so let’s all pretend like it isn’t? Let’s all sing songs and get drunk and stuff our faces and pretend like the world outside isn’t cold and dark. To most people this probably sounds like a good idea, but to me it seems disingenuous, unhealthy even. If something is bothering me, for example it being freezing cold and pitch black every day, I’m going to acknowledge that, I’m going to feel bad. I don’t just ignore it when I accidentally stub my toe; I’m going to curse the damn object I tripped over. When I’m in a foul mood I want to express that and to repress it and pretend like everything is a-ok would make me feel like a big fraud. Why not be miserable in the winter? What is so bad about feeling bad? It can be quite cathartic. Misanthropes of the world unite; you have nothing to lose but your tinsel.
I’ve always felt alone, never really felt like I fit in, even in a crowd of friends or surrounded by family I’ve felt somewhat isolated. I’ve never really understood why, perhaps I never will, but that’s just the way I am. I know I’m different to most people, I think differently, I act differently; perhaps too different to ever really belong with anyone. Growing up, I had friends, not many but a good group of close friends. However, I never really felt that strong a connection to any of them; sure, we got along, shared common interests, had good times together, but that integral, human, bond was never there, at least not for me. I never really knew that at the time, I just figured that’s how everyone felt; everyone feels alone because they can never truly share their existence with someone.
Then one day when I was about eleven or twelve years old, this angry, frightened and feral creature comes flying through the door to my living room as I go to get my breakfast. At first I cry out a little, we never had pets and suddenly there’s a strange animal running through my legs first thing in the morning. When I realised it was just a cat I felt silly for being so startled. I was told by my mother that a stray cat had climbed into the house through a cracked window in the back room. I was excited; I had always wanted a pet, but we had always had enough problems not to have to worry about looking after a dog or a cat.
General Kessler sat at his desk in the small office afforded to him by the Colonial Astral Resource Program. He looked around at the beige walls, and pondered the small space in which he had worked for the past 6 years. General Kessler was 56 years old, and this being the pinnacle of his career, he was confined to a 12 square foot office with no air conditioning for most of his working days. He considered this for a minute, considered that maybe a man of his rank might have done a lot better for himself. He discarded the thought; he was essentially nothing more than an administrator for a cargo company, despite the lofty four star rank, and he still pulled in a six figure salary each year. His left hand instinctively reached down to the top drawer of his desk, hesitating only slightly before opening the drawer. The drawer slid open with a pleasant sloshing clink, and General Kessler took out the bottle of scotch. He decanted a glass and peered at the tiny office window through the honey coloured liquid. He could see the launch tower from here.
- I am an author, getting focused on my writing. This blog is to promote my writing and give me some feedback on my work. I'm a big fan of far-fetched fantasy including the works of Terry Pratchett and Robert Rankin, along with sci-fi, non-fiction and everything in between. I love to read.