It’s my third January with the blog. This year I’ve been coping by writing fiction instead of blog posts. In three weeks I wrote a romance novel – a very short one, more a novella really. We’ve been talking so much lately about how STORY is an effective way to communicate truths, and I was just like, “Fuck it.” It was easy. It was FUN – and for me to find something fun in January is like a walrus finding something fun on the city bus.
I’ve written – indeed I’ve published – romantic fiction (under a pen name), and maybe that’s something I’ll do more of. I’m pretty okay at it – I’ve only submitted maybe five stories in my life, and two of them were published and a third made it to a serious level of consideration. That’s a RIDICULOUS hit rate for unsolicited submissions. I’ll probably submit this story. Hey how about this: if I submit it but it doesn’t get accepted, I’ll post it here for ya’ll to read.
Hell, maybe I’ll abandon science, and the accountability to facts that goes with it, for a life built exclusively on imaginative storytelling. Christ, that sounds like a good idea. How much easier would my life be if I didn’t have to consider whether or not something I’m writing was TRUE, only whether or not it FELT true? Don’t get me wrong, I love the science. The science gets me excited. But you should have seen me when I was figuring out what the mid-point would be, how the hero would suddenly realize that he was in love with the heroine. That was exciting too. And if it isn’t perfect, there are literally NO consequences.
I imagine that would still be a deeply rewarding life.
I hate motherfucking January.