I've read through that short story and have discovered that there are large chunks of the end of it that I must have at some point taken out. And that the main male character was apparently originally called Jeremy and then (because of my sudden interest in the tennis player, Lleyton Hewitt?) it was changed. I must have written this story my freshman year of college. I wrote a lot of stories then. None of them good, but all imaginative, inspirational, free. I was so eager for life my freshman year of college, and indeed even through those four years, even after I came back from Regents College in London and found something missing in my old college, even after (at the same time) the English departments favourite professor and head of the department left for a position elsewhere. Rather cliche, really. We all grow up in college -- or are suppose to realize the reality of life. Some of us are destroyed by it, and others pick up the pieces and move on.
Illusions. I was so happy my first two years at college. So inspired. I could write silly, fantastic stories and feel no guilt for their lack of basis in reality. I haven't written stories since then. I try sometimes, and can't. Like it is wrong to indulge in fantasies. I could write a story that is factual, reality based, but that would be no fun, no escape. Plus, I have always found what is not often found in reality to be more interesting than what is.
Others can write about what does happen, I'd rather take a more surreal approach to reality. I've always loved literature for its ability to open our mind, to show us not what is so blatantly obvious, but what is difficult to see, but there, nonetheless, in some capacity.
-----
Jack Vettriano
No comments:
Post a Comment