On Writing: (Loud Mental Notes)

Posted as a response to:

http://laradunning.wordpress.com/2011/02/13/fantasy-fiction-author-interview-mik-wilkens/

Just more mental wanderings I wanted to consider later. All of these are pulled from my comments. This time I crossed out the sections unimportant to the theme.

“Yes, I couldn’t agree more.

The essential advantage of any form of fiction is to allow the audience to extend beyond the parameters of their current reality, and regard with new eyes an evaluation of a potential reality existing beyond their own perceptions.
The themes and intentions the writer presents are seen, and were created, beyond the scope of the audience’s life. The meanings of the imagery and the action that tie the themes are all allowed to act seamlessly within the reader that accepts the suspension of disbelief. The reader then must accept the world as it unfolds; and it had better be captivating if the conveyance is to occur successfully. That is up to the writer from the start, but it is with the use of dissociative elements such as the nature of its fantastical or fictional devices,(or rather so very associated with the concept that it must be manufactured by fiction, as in science fiction)to appeal to the reader beyond the bias of their daily lives.

Suspension of the known reality is truly the real aim of any form of fiction.
Some forms replicate existing realities with vivid associative detail, to tie in the reader with aspects of known realism; and the more imaginative end of the fiction spectrum seeks to fabricate similarly vivid representations of concepts through instillment of belief in the writers carefully manufactured, compiled, and conceived, realities representation: the more imaginative the fiction (even within the realm of realism),the better.

I respect your efforts Mik”

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About Epoch Awareness. Writer, J.D. Hughes

I write. Do you read? I write. I write words: Carefully and consistently, and chaotically, from the deep pulsar unison of the still mind (or the violent undoing of the still mind); Sometimes I resemble Robert Zimmerman (my hair uncut, my mind uncut, all unregulated thoughts, wind haphazard along a pale american brow too). Sometimes, Sometimes words are fragments of paragraphs and you find them eschew in and from time, and with care, in the long ribbon fabric or one single unsealed cosmic spiral, and then they burn wild like black-holes ( birthing voids built the milky way); Still there are words so heavy and pure that they anchor fast the mind to the mere memory of their syllables in the quiet echoes, in and around, the deep violet sea of the questioning readers inner-mind. I write sentences: In strands, like silk, or links in chains, or diamond arranged compressed carbon coal electrons, or the frequency of more intimately woven atoms; In intricate quilts of reason, and warmly glowing sheets of cotton fiction that cover you at 4 am on a Sunday (with the sun bright and a bastard, soon to be hitting your face from the slats in the window shades); I write paragraphs, and as such I consider it a duty of the considerate and conflicted human to consider their conflicts human, and consider: In airports, in churches, in penthouses in Hollywood (who overlook the homeless mountains and the slanting fogs of debilitated industries, and the vacuum seduction, and lifeless Angel City in the Wests bleached blonde sand, and lids of imagery cover sad vacant eyes), in station wagons, in deep wood temples in Maine, near the Androscoginn River, where the Native Americans caught silver fish and eternity lived off communal tides to the distant ocean, which is now more black than the sky from our waste, now wrought with the studied three-headed-demon-fish, (but still a holy place Maine, it glows); In any meaningful medium, known or noun, imaginable is mans only true duty. It is mans only Deity (For what was with God, what was God? The Word was, In The Beginning). To chase the promise that reality and truth are not yet only relative devices, and leaving these scriptures: On brains, and on paper, and on papyrus, and old plaster, and on the backs of old Polaroids (once someone did at least), the thin skin on wet hands who ru
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