Floating Foam

I’ve finished the first chapter of part two of my book, bringing the word count to around 30,000. At the close of this latest chapter, I finally opened up the darker visions that haunt the main character, something I’ve been looking forward to.

I’m more than fond of the absurd, of darker moods, of ghost stories. It’s not my inner goth crying out for piercings; it’s my absolute devotion to questioning my purpose. Since there are no answers, the conjecture my mind summons is touched with sadness. Sadness and hope. The second part is important, and it’s what makes me, on the whole, a very positive person. Recognize the sadness, turn towards the hope.

So far, my book has focused on the development of the main character, on his education, his quirks, his ignorance. In part two, his ignorance is replaced with experience, which allows him up to finally understand that he has a dark side, and that it is more than just a small part of his nature.

Exploring this part of his character excites me because I have no limits. I can explore the darkest caves of human thought with him, close the laptop, and go back inside and play with my son. Although it is work, writing this type of fiction is also a vacation from reality and allows me access to parts of myself that never see the light of day.

Fun? Scary? Necessary? All of the above?

Here’s a sample from the latest chapter:

During my 30s, I began writing a memoir for the first time. I’ve used pieces of it to inform and frame my current endeavor, but much of it reeks of optimism and confidence. I believe many of the passages might sketch me too harshly, as if I were nothing but a despicable character.

“It has occurred to me that I am, in fact, not playing god. Although the media loves to toss around such clichés, if I were simply playing god, I would be but an actor, faking it. What I’ve done is god’s work. There is no playing about it. I’ve taken the tools from god’s factory floor and wielded them as he might have, were he both real and actively creating. In this light, I’m a skilled laborer in an abandoned shop, making me a very real and active god.”

Many people will still take from this statement a message I did not intend. However, since my discoveries have shaken and destroyed the very foundations of religion, today’s outrage will likely not match what would have manifested had I finished and published that memoir 30 years ago. Back then, even in our secular society, god enjoyed a prominence not unlike a dead parent—someone who lived a bitter, alcoholic life, dispensing anger and depression on his children, but once deceased, is spoken of with only admiration and respect.

If you read the passage as I do, in a literal sense, it is a passable bit of philosophy. But I’ve lived through enough to realize that such a request must be framed before entertained. Hopefully, I’ve built a reasonable context for you in the first part of this book.