Fiction writing in an insane world…

Everything I’ve written has been touched with madness, chaos and violence. The real world has infiltrated my creative space. Since I haven’t avoided reality; I’ve decided to seclude myself from it.
I mean, it’s a mad, mad world out there. Insanity roams the streets of America. People have died trying to have their voices heard. Representatives that we voted in has betrayed the American people. Am I surprised to see both political parties embrace the role of Judas Iscariot? No.
Still, writing was my haven from reality. I could be anyone or anything in my stories. Now, my stories are filled with political hooey.
Who would want to read something that sounds like a news headline? “Timothy watched as the protestors stormed the White House.” Um, okay. Fiction writing should be about something that doesn’t copy the real world.
I’m sure we’re all glad the gigantic cluster of who’s the next idiot in charge has reached its climax. Yet, I’ve never wanted to read a reality-charged novel/short story/novella.
I wanted to be a superhero like the Hulk. Or a barbaric warrior like Conan. I dreamed of rescuing damsels and overthrowing corrupted wizards. I have wanted to wander the hidden corners of the cosmos. I wanted to be a P.I. and solve riddle-encrypted mysteries.
I have wanted everything but a normal life. As a writer, I’ve wanted to write about everything but reality (and romance.)
Today, I decided to remind myself that it’s okay to be weird. In a world where we’re expected to conform, it’s okay to dream. Write the weird stuff. It’s okay to be a space wandering nerd in search of of a Viking queen with a sweet tooth.
Because fiction trumps reality any day.

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