A gooey surprise inside

I've said it before and I'll say it now for you: every person on this earth has some kind of interesting story to tell. It's what makes me depressed sometimes. On the one hand I think that I have something interesting to say, a different perspective to lend. But then I like to read about and I like to listen even more to first-hand stories. There are a plethora of them, much more gripping than mine: My parents sold me into slavery, I had a normal childhood but I still did bad things, Inside I'm really a serial killer, I used to be a prostitute and now I'm in marketing.

The list goes on ad infinitum. As interesting as all the stories can be, it just cements the idea in my head that it's all becoming too much information. Who the hell really cares? It's like inventing a new toothpaste: novel, at first, then knocked off by every competitor that exists. Eventually, the truth comes out that it was all a gimmick anyway. (We're onto you, Simon & Schuster, Random House, etc.)

Fiction is beginning to feel the same as a lot of these memoirs, too. I just bought two new books of contemporary fiction.



I love fiction. I love when I am carried away into some other world, some other place by a skillfully subtle writer. Sometimes the nuance of the words charms me more than anything. But, I have to admit that I'm barely excited about reading these. That doesn't mean I won't thoroughly enjoy them. I like the writing styles well enough. Even the subjects spark my interest a bit. I just can't escape this feeling that I'm being spoon-fed the fiction formula and I have to drink the tonic or else I'll never learn to conform. I know, I know--Me-ow.

I find myself writing in somewhat the same formula (one day I'll let you fine feathered friends read one of these short "masterpieces"), particularly right after finishing some writing class or another. Bleck. I bore myself silly. Or perhaps I'm just a lazy bastard.