Many months ago I started writing some fiction. It follows the horizontal line below. I didn’t know:
- what I was doing;
- actually, that’s it. I guess I didn’t need a list.
You might recognize commonalities between the text and my own life- that is intentional and very much a tribute to Tim O’Brien’s “The Things They Carried”. It’s one of my very favourite novels. The fact remains, however, that like TTTC this is a work of fiction.
I choose to write about what I know. If the characters weren’t inspired by people I know or knew, they wouldn’t be inspiring to read. Nonetheless, the characters are fictional. Sorry for knowing me.
Six feet cracked the frost beneath, Camus gasped like a tired, corroded engine as he pulled on his lead and Matt Berninger’s baritone humdrum bellowed in my ears. Camus was willing me forward, steering me from the suburban sidewalk and into the frost of the fields despite headwinds drawing his eyes shut and the taut nylon that choked at his marble marbled neck. He was bounding, shivering frantic. His eyes reddening, his ears listening, his every muscle twitching to go. Wilde Jagd.