Welcome to my own weird patch of the internet, a floating island among a billion more adrift in an ink-cloud ocean sky. Fiction’s my hearthfire, my addiction, that hot red lightning bolt called ‘purpose’ you sometimes feel in your chest. When I’ve had nothing else, I’ve had words to read and more to write. So I bought myself this allotment to grow my words, some far-flung patch of virtual dirt in the back of beyond where the trees are twisted and black. If anyone happens to read this, please let me know what you think of my stuff. It’s the only way I’ll get better at writing, and it’ll stop me talking to myself.
Well now. Stories. What are they? Stories are the Big Thing. We think in stories. We talk in stories, dream in stories, order and direct our lives by shaping stories in our heads. Stories turn rumours into legends, radical thinkers into gods. We put our favourite people and things they’ve done into mental montages; editing out the bad times and the boredom and leaving only the choicest cuts. Our memories aren’t files in a cabinet but seeds in a twisted garden. Left alone they grow unchecked in the weather of mood and the sunlight of imagination. One day you’ll go back to a long-lost memory and find it mangled, altered, better and worse than you remember; bigger and bolder and further away. You’ve turned something real into a story, people into characters, everyday events into epics because that’s how your mind likes to work. In essence, our brains are wired towards stories. News, gossip, fiction, non-fiction; movies, celebrities, consumer goods and games. Everything that appeals is built on stories, or helps to build them more. Stories aren’t just what make the world go round, they’re what gives us our idea of the world at all.
Anyway, have a look over some of the stitched-together cack-handed garbage I call my writing and let me know what you think. Who knows, with enough feedback I might even start making sense one day. Stranger things have happened.