One of my very favorite things in the world of fiction is that cosmic force, the presence that is imposing just because of its size, the very Big Dumb Object itself. An example, seen below, adds consciousness to the mix. The presentation is excellent. I love the image. But not enough was done with it, plotwise, back in the day.
One of the things that makes me create is the desire to see a better version of things, at least in my eyes. My first writing was done in response to a comic-book villain I thought terrible (the Stilt-Man, as in DD#48). So I come by it naturally. My art is, at least initially, imitative. It always has been. I like a certain amount of structure, a framework to stand on, before taking the great leap into the unknowable seas of imagination. My first drafts, first versions of things, almost always have a large portion of synthesis, of combining previously-known ingredients into a new stew, stirring it up, and then improvising over the changes.
Writing and music, my two main interests, reflect this. Both have the ability to evolve endlessly. This is necessary for a tinkerer. Themes emerge, bubble up, take a spotlight turn, are swallowed by the others, ingested, digested, stylized, excreted. The Lovecraft Mythos, the Marvel Universe, Known Space, the Beatles, Frank Zappa, HST, Brunner, Dangerous Visions, these remain near the surface. Pink Floyd ever climbs toward the light. Black Sabbath sounds in the deeps, always. Later, others. But those were the first, during the period when I started considering perhaps a life in the arts. This coincided roughly with the beginning of the 1970s.
I am an unashamed hippie metalhead. I don’t have a third eye but I have cultivated my pineal gland and I am extremely experienced. My workday starts with the ingestion of hippie speedballs, i.e., . coffee and weed.
It almost always has. Life decided that I was to take a different track, but I intended to be a writer from the very start. My mother’s astrologer thought I was supposed to be a musician. My other car is a Gibson, but I ride a Smith Corona. At least, in my mind’s eye, I do.
Since 2011, I’ve been retired. I had a serious illness and am unable to return to the workforce. I receive a small federal paycheck each month, and augment that with funds from child-sitting and creative writing.
Starting out in a field always takes some time. I’ve had some small success in the past, writing, and making music. I felt I’d need to redevelop my voice, and would definitely need to develop a feel for the market and a degree of writer’s discipline.
I waxed prolix. Gave away most of the stuff for free, for practice. Something happened to interrupt the flow, a life event. I floated in the stagnant flood, treading dirty water, bailing when I had a chance. I was hungry, and had advertised many things.
I ate my words while I was adrift. I found a life raft. I floated away on it, slowly, inexorably, until I arrived at new psychic shores.
I got back after it. I even submitted a few things. Some were even accepted. That was heartening.
This year, I was overjoyed to find that I would need to pay taxes. My book before Crazytown was to blame. Originally conceived of as an experiment, badly-formatted (at least initially), half-ass-edited, it grew into a molehill.
It’s gonna be a dead-tree book. I finished the editing and formatting a couple of hours ago.
Crazytown isn’t going to be far behind. The Big Dumb Object I’ve been chasing all these years has become fecund. I juggle worlds.
I couldn’t be happier.