Now I think I know, what you tried to say to me. And how you suffered for your sanity. And how you tried to set them free. They would not listen. They’re not listening still. Perhaps they never will.
Someone, having heard the maxim to “write what you know” asked me that if they wrote things they had not experienced themselves, “isn’t that just fiction?” Oh my God, yes! Fiction is the ultimate mind escape into the multiverse of imagination. The vaunted science of the day doesn't grasp half of it.
Fiction is the energy of anticipated creation. It inhabits the cosmos waiting for someone to see it and bring the vision into “reality” by putting it on the pages of a book to be resurrected anew by every reader.
In the flesh I live a very common existence without zing or sparks—certainly, nothing for anyone to love, to emulate, or to be fascinated by. But in the realm of imaginative fiction, I can be anyone, do anything, go anywhere for the price of slacking off for an hour or two. I can stop time and start it again—I can create worlds and command all that occupy them.
Just fiction—are you sure? Is Starry Night, just a painting? Or is it something more, some little part of the soul and spirit of the artist unleashed into the world? Perhaps it is even more than that—a dimension of reality only the artist can see and bring into this world. Fiction is not born independent of the writer. The spirit of every story lives deep inside. Released, it becomes real, takes on substance, and lives.
Of course, I could be blowing smoke. Ed Landry, Bryn Bou, and Vern Carson might well be the voices in my head shielding me from the heartbreak of the real world. That’s what multiple personalities do, you know—protect people from the trauma and terror of reality. Friend writer, I’ve tried to set you free, are you listening?