Fiction writing is generally strongest either in plot, characters or setting. In general fiction it's most likely plot. In fantasy (which includes sci-fi) it's generally setting. And in "literature" it's usually characters.

These Gormenghast novels are really strongest in characters despite the massive castle and as such for being categorized as fantasy it's pretty unusual, ultimately though it's just miscategorized I think. Not that I like to go on about categories. But the insight about fantasy-setting, general fiction-plot, literature-characters is worth noting.

Mark Twain says he considered titling his autobiography 'The Autobiography of a Coward' or 'Confessions of a Life that was a Failure'. This in order to try to be honest as opposed to most autobiographies and blogs for that matter which instead make the person out to be basically perfect. Of course if a person says negative things about themselves, there is the question as to whether or not they even realize they're saying negative things. Although whether or not they do, it still makes for actually interesting writing, which is something you virtually never find in the blogosphere.

For that matter there is conversely the chance that some people are really the angels they make themselves out to be. Like me for example.

not going back and ever rereading a diary/journal seems to mostly make it a waste of time. And I knew I wouldn't do so because primarily I wouldn't be able to stand how stupid I had previously been. This is like in Kundera's The Joke he finds an old diary he wrote as a teenager and he's so horrified and disgusted by what he wrote, that he rips the diary to shreds.

Wrote that almost two years ago. Now it's no longer true as I have indeed went back and read almost two years worth of a diary/blog/whatever. At times it was painful but it was/is an extremely important exercise, if nothing else, from the perspective of wanting to be a writer. I go back now and perhaps more clearly see when I wrote well and when I really didn't! But this is largely a matter of forgetting. The goal back then wasn't remotely to write well. I was often writing badly as I just thought things out. I knew and didn't care. The important thing was figuring out some thoughts. Anyway I haven't forgotten what I was about so much that I want to rip my diary to shreds. But if I had waited a decade instead of a couple years perhaps I would have wanted to.

...
Gormenghast certainly has it's moment. I don't like quite how much detail is put forth into scenery describing in the manner which he employs. I prefer Jack Vance's method. But Peake's characters. Their detail in personality, mannerisms and even physical appearance completely destroys certainly anything by Vance (Vance characters though horribly unvaried and usually nondescript) and anyone else for that matter. They are caricatures to an extent yet still with a level of insight that perhaps outdoes George Eliot.

In other news, thank god I only work one night shift a week. Night shift is awful. Bad sleep one day a week is standable but day after day slowly destroys one's body. Furthermore trying to stay up late on my days off is so depressing. Having to still do it once a week is nice just in having a continual reminder in how much better I generally have things now.

Was thinking in so many ways I do have it really well these days. My work is so different from day to day. And seeing so many different people at work is such a good thing. And the actual work is generally so positive of course. And J and I's combined income is very good. This house is wonderful. It really makes a difference having money. In many ways life is very good for me and after what I've been through both by bad luck and my own moral choosing, I deserve to now go ahead and enjoy life a bit, somewhat.

As things turned red, as things are red, I forget why am I sloshing through these pools of blood?

I had imagined something close to telepathy. Not actually but a speaking to a person as if we were literally in each other's heads and had no secrets. True understanding, no need to hide things. An understanding that hiding was absurd. But then to convey what to each other?

Nothing so special I suppose. The commonplace of life and reflections upon it. Simple plain actually meaningful friendships basically.

So that was lost then.

Instead a world where such doesn't exist, where it's inappropriate for me to call up anyone other than my parents or wife "just to talk".

But as I get older I care less and less. I adapt. Slowly, finally. Today the sun shines in brilliantly. Yes, the norfolk pine will get plenty of sun sitting right there. Dropped my fast running day down to 6.1mph and my knees feel fine. Now shall have a bit of hot chocolate and read some Gormenhgast. Summarize hellblog a bit later. Almost finished with part 1 of the summary now. Feel very good. I barely remember the concept of loneliness.

-fast asleep
-it is seven years since
-the procession far below him wind back from
-a blotch of shadow augured the approach
-as soon as entered he closed the door
-without slackening his pace
-the floor of the room sloped curiously
-on his way down a decline in the floor which sank to
-the darkness that lay beyond took him... muffling the edges of his sharp body
-for the furtherance of his own designs
-thronged
-he had, in a moment of devilment, turned his
-something impressive in his childish frame, as though there was a kind of weight there, or strength

grace
sent its rays
bustling
heartless
gloom
meander
profound
foreboding
stark contrast
havens
haunting
incessant
ascension to power
invites the pretense of justice
treachery
sweeping view
emblazoned
insignia
strode
a sense of wonder
learned their trade
a wicked smile spread across his lips
crept along the side
slipped in the alley
sped off
they took care not to
paid them no heed
strewn with stones
...permeated the air
smile spread wide
when the whispers ripple out
they streamed out
weapons waving menacingly
rummaging
pulling his stare from the spectacle
involuntary shudder
botched
the word prompted a jumble of emotions

"What place is this that is my world; what dark coil has my spirit embodied?"

"Look at his eyes," Vierna whispered to Maya as they examined the newest member of house Do'Urden.....
..."What do you see that the rest of us cannot?"

"How long will I survive?"
"How long until this madness that is my existence consumes me?"

Had a dream that started out in the car with my Mom and two vague people in the back. Mom decided to take a short cut through someone's lawn in response to which I voiced my extreme disapproval. The short cut meant running over flowers and over a very small fence. Unfortunately the lawn's owner was there waiting and Mom had to then take an additional detour which ended up with her stuck and caught while the lawn owner called the police. Mom said I could just leave, it wasn't my fault and I didn't have to take part in the punishment.

Dreams are art. The "lie" which gets us closer to the truth. Seemingly random stuff which symbolizes/analogizes our own lives. The first half of this dream could symbolize my mother's second marriage, which perhaps was a mistake, one which I got taken along for the ride, where just getting away maybe would have been for the better.

So I got out and walked away and decided to visit S. But I couldn't remember quite where she lived. Which was strange. It seemed as if the house was hidden. As if the evil god kept trying to make me forget in order to thwart my destiny. I finally managed to find the house anyway.

A beautiful, unusual house. She was living with her parents. I came in and met her dad. He looked just like Michael Parenti in the dream. I debated with myself if I should mention this. Normally I don't mention to people that they look like someone else. This time though, in want of small talk I did. He had never heard of him. Although he made a bet beforehand that whoever it was, he'd know them, then he attempted to pretend like he did, I think as a joke.

He had a puppy with him that had a strange furry tentacle-like growth coming out of the top of his back. They were planning on having it removed. I noticed the dog could actually use it though, could wrap it around things like a monkey tail and I suggested they let the dog keep it's tentacle.

During all this I debated going downstairs to see S. Problem was that I was married in the dream and on what pretext exactly was I here visiting her anyway?

...heard on some disgusting radio station the following: "Man rule number 13: Never call up another man, just to talk." Meant to be funny although the humor doesn't translate to words, the gruff "manly" voice is lost, and the comedic timing.

That is the social norms of our society. To call up another man just to talk would be gay and thus breaks the social norms. And to call up a woman just to talk means you want in her pants. In our society there is no reason at all that a man would ever call up anyone "just to talk" except that he wants to have sex with whomever he's called.

So to be there at S's house without a pretext will make it quite clear to her that I've got something inappropriate going on in my head. And I've spent my life not lying about anything, thus I'm pretty much incapable of dishonesty.

She finally comes upstairs before I go down, it's like a ladder that is used to come up and down from this lower room and she makes a quip about how I must have not wanted to use the ladder. She's pregnant and glowing. Really looks beautiful. And my heart gives such a hurtful jealous pang. She must be with someone now!

Dream basically ends here. In real life I don't have anything really to do with S now because I'm basically a hermit. A hermit because I'd rather stare at a wall than take part in the crap social norms of this society. I'd rather stare at a wall than lie to myself. I'm not allowed to have meaningful relationships with anyone but my wife and other relatives. And I don't want to waste any time outside of work with people who really will only ever be aquaintances. People I forever have to censor most I who I really am with. People whom soon enough will move away and never be seen again.

To have healthy meaningful relationships with other people is not allowed in this society and I'm not interested in the twisted pitiful stuff that is. Rather spend the next 40 years at home. Which isn't so bad really. As long as I don't spend it watching TV.

...well the aquaintances aren't useless. To have no social interaction at all is really not good. Luckily my work gives me a ton of interaction.