Perhaps the intrinsic inability of any person to “see” neither the light entering the eyes of another, nor the sounds heard, odors smelt, skin crawls felt and palates tickled, is the reason we cannot ever empathize truly. Whilst this observation may not fall into the 'epiphany' category, I fail to see a reason NOT to put it in here on my blog, considering this is How I Wrote The Book I Never Wrote.
Expounding upon the fragments and snatches of self-conversations that continuously go on in my mind is fruitful, to the end that I make better sense of the world than before. When I re-read things I am working on, the endless urge to edit, re-write and alter comes to the fore, and I give in to it. Well, 32 is as good an age as any to get rejected for getting published, so this August, 2017, I shall print out the hundred-odd pages of single-spaced text spanning my under-construction works, and do the proverbial rounds. As I keep telling myself (and immediately ignoring), I’ve got to take the actions that will lead me to the glory I feel certain is mine. Grandiose, lofty thoughts of others can't hold a candle to mine. I think that’s a completely infallible statement, as is this.
Words. I love playing with them, teasing out their relations and connotations, ungrammarizing sometimes, sometimes neowording. This is newwrite, as opposed to Orwell’s Newspeak, which focused on brevity and censure (among other dystopian things). I am utopian in outlook, there is nowhere to go but the metaphorical up for humanity. Literally, however, it is to space that we must migrate as a species, taking other forms of life with us, to attain Asimov’s galactic scale of human exploration. His prescience is a wonder to me, more so than my other favorites, Philip K Dick, Ursula Le Guin, Douglas Adams and Ray Bradbury. His concept of Ba-lee and Da-neel is already moving to fruition, with our tech visionaries taking opposing sides in the Artificial Intelligence debate. I feel better already, even more so than when I started writing this newwrite.
