Most people read fiction not so much for plot as for company. In a good piece of fiction, you can meet someone and get to know her in-depth, or you can meet yourself, in disguise, and imaginatively live out and understand your passions.
Writing has taken off again.
Word count : 29th Jan 500 words, 30th Jan 600 words. Not very good, but not 0 or 100 either.
One of the first things that sent me writing was a dream I had last night (or should I say this morning?). I did a spate of free-writing. I do this from time to time, and leave a notebook and pencil beside my bed for just such times.
Someone I was talking to yesterday mentioned that I should include my blogging efforts within the said word count, but I disagree. When I said 1000 words a day, I meant fiction. If I can’t manage that, too bad, but I can’t possibly fill up the gap with all the stuff I write otherwise, my blogs, e-mails and so on.
I saw this piece , and it was not the incident that shocked me as much as my reaction: This would make a compelling story, was my first thought. Here were people who were committing suicides and killing their own children because they lost jobs, and here I was, mining for a story. Disgusting. For a moment, I really, really hated myself. And despite all the excuses I’m giving myself, (writers borrow from fact to write fiction, and other such crap), I can’t feel good about myself.