Strange Times

I got asked today if I am a writer. It's a strange question, given that there's not much that I'd rather be able to do. Given that I write, I suppose that I am a writer of sorts, in the same way that someone who runs must also be a runner. You are what you do.

I have been reading a lot of blog posts and such by Dan Harmon. He is a masterpiece and a complete weirdo of a human being. That's why I am enjoying what he creates so much, though. I am familiar with self-loathing and borderline insane narcissism.

Sometimes people notice when I have really great insight into other people, but all of the insight has come from staring at myself. The weird self-awareness and interest is what has given me whatever knowledge I have. It's not good or bad, but it's true. I guess it's something of a waste given that I'm not a very social person, so there isn't a lot of opportunity for me to offer this insight to anyone else, but that's beside the point.

I wish that I was a more directly creative person and that I could somehow transfer my knowledge into building proper characters. I'd love to write a novel, but I'm not sure what I would talk about and who my characters would be. I'd love to treat them with the same love and dignity that Mr. Harmon does, and be able to love each and every character for exactly who they are and write them as flawed human beings. I guess it comes down to that I'm not confident that I'm a compassionate enough person. I'm more than willing to throw people I don't like under the bus. And that doesn't make for very interesting storytelling.

I'm not sure if this is something that I'd need to reconcile beforehand.

Oh God, now all I can think about is a bizarro Lifetime special about a writer who struggles but learns to love her characters and learns to love again. I might barf a little.

Another thing that I guess I could try is to follow the advice that Mr. Harmon suggests on his blog about examining people in your life who provoke a reaction from you and distilling them down into what makes them them. It seems like a somewhat unfair experiment to conduct on the innocents in my life, but it might be useful.

Ending this here, now.