The line between fact and fiction is blurry. How many stories am I telling, do I participate in - at this one moment? So many. I can barely keep up with the activities of all my personalities.
I spent the weekend reading fiction by Jeffrey Ford about his Mrs Charbuque. I accept her eccentric characteristics as if she really existed. Requesting a portrait by a painter who has and will never see her? Oh it's so cliche - reality is stranger than fiction - as a writer you often have to water down reality for the masses to exist the possibility. But what about when you create possibilities and they emerge dripping wet, even more stranger than fiction that you could have never thought? I guess that's your children for you.
Anyway, that is just to say that people and things in my life are stranger than fiction - and that tends to skew my world view. But that's ok, cause I prefer to have a skewed view on this world - and it's really no more skewed than anyone else's, just in a different direction.
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