In my years of writing, I've come to the realization recently that every novel, every story, every idea, has a sinking point. Not a sinking point as in the way of the idea going south, sinking into the echelon of broken thoughts and novels, but a sinking point in the way of breaking the surface on the water, and diving deep into the lake. Instead of catching the fish beneath the water, it's allowing the fish to catch you, pull you off the boat, and drag you along underneath. This is the point that the characters take over, which can cause great confusion and public disdain. Steinbeck did this with East of Eden, of of which, he had this to say: "In this book I am a bystander and I know it." The fish takes you along, not you hauling in the fish, because that's labor, that is superficial. Following the great fish throughout the water, wherever it wants to take you, like riding a great Whale, is not work, it is not forced, it is not superficial. It is real. Of pure writing convention, Charles Bukowski wrote, “There is a time to stop reading, there is a time to stop trying to write, there is a time to kick the whole bloated sensation of art out on its whore-ass.”
Kicking the whole bloated sensation of art out on its whore-ass. Giving the finger to genre. Giving the finger to reality. For far too often, novels are forced into pragmatism, leading to questions and analysis. But to question the surface is but mere ripples. What is amazing is when the sinking point hits and the fish says, "I will show you your answers," and leads you to the answers to the 1st, while making you question the second.
Alice down the rabbit hole and the cake saying to her, "EAT ME," and here she is, growing larger and larger. This whole idea of the sinking point, and swimming with the whale, swimming with the fish, is beyond the idea of stream-of-consciousness. It is going beyond what is conscious, and down deeper, into the subconscious, down to where this story, this essay, this book, this poem, really wants to go. Because, in the end, you will be swallowed by it, and spit out at least 100 miles closer in the right direction.
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ok, dude...i just went from an ethics class to a philosophy one. i can barely understand what u r sayin' right now. i'm so confused that if somebody told me Hitler was our 25th president, i'd believe them...i guess it also doesn't help that i haven't been getting much sleep the past few nights (that would probably explain why my brain hurts so much right now: it's pooped) :/
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