People tell me to write what I know. I’m wary of that. Hemingway did it and he shot himself. Collete did too, and she was a whore.
I have a preoccupation with writing about one thing I haven’t a clue about. It’s cliche and trite … but cliches and triteness are like sweat pants. They’re slightly embarrassing but damn comfortable.
I write about love (I think).
I concoct silly dialogues. I rewrite my relationships on the page like it was my job. I fixate on the “meet-cute” on things that are “unrequited”. I have created fictions that will never be lived up to by me, myself or you. How tragic you’ll say. No, I’ll say. It aint tragic – it’s armour, it’s padding, it’s my exo-skeleton. It’s fun. People want to hear about love as much as us post-collegial cliches want to pretend it exists.
If I were to write abut what I knew I’d have a very limited range. For I know very little. Lets be honest. I would be forced to write about dancing around the kitchen on a Tuesday night whilst listening to New Order or tripping over cracks in the pavement or telling a tale of how a joke fell flat.
OR, an even WORSE case scenario … I’d have to form opinions and articulate them to you in fully formed, mature-like sentances … and there’s enough of that silliness out there to sustain y’all for decades.
So I’ll continue to write about love thankyou … and self-pity. Because they go hand in hand right?