I have an aversion to plot. I know that. Little actually happens in the stories I write. What with the majority of my existence being internal, it’s hard to care overly about external action. And yet for some reason I write minimalist instead of psychological. I might be wrong in classifying my writing as minimalist. I don’t know for sure what that entails. I’ll look it up.
It’s about time the literary world was handed an upside down urinal. And I am just the fucker to piss in it.
Willful ignorance and hypocrisy are the great traits of my generation.
The beginnings of an UnEnlightenment manifesto:
The death knell has sounded upon the cleverly arranged and intentionally ironic silver bells of postmodernism. It turns out that none of us really give a shit that the world is all meaningless simulation. I mean, it doesn’t change how we live, how we got to make a living. And if we are drinking more and doing more drugs as a consequence, well we probably would have anyway. You can call us degenerates. I’m pretty sure we won’t be insulted. Except for that one guy in the corner who is going to kick your ass, but that’s only because he thought you said something else and he will apologize for it and buy your drinks for the rest of the night. So no worries really. I couldn’t read the rest of the napkin, so I’ll make some more up later.
Face it; there is basically nothing that is not rendered completely impotent in the face of our apathy and indifference. We know the world is going to end. We know that shit is fucked up and should be changed. But we know that we aren’t going to make a difference; that we can’t make a difference. Spot overestimating your importance. So we do what any sensible twentysomething would do in our position – we get fucked up and enjoy ourselves best we can. We deserve it. Our jobs are shit. Our lives are shit. Our apartments are shit. It’s not escapism. It’s taking back the weekends for everything we lose during the week. Because I don’t feel that I need to stand for anything in order to be authentic. I already know that authenticity is a lie. That selfsame passive sense of distrust that Oda Saku knew so well. This bottle is for him.
Towards a nonexistent purity (of essence or some such other): keep crossing those thresholds. Open the doors, ever changing new experiences. All the better to see you with my dear. Trailing off into whatever.
Plot needs events of significance, it needs action. It needs things to matter and it needs the protagonist to actually do shit. I have difficulty understanding why anyone would want to do that.