So, I’ll preface this with the fact that I have no idea how to run a blog. Sure, when I was younger (a few years ago) I ran a Tumblr ‘blog’ (if you could truly call sharing pictures and quotes from cartoons a blog), but I never actually took my time to write anything original to post. Except once. That one time left a bad taste in my mouth. It was a post about Star Trek, and I don’t really want to go into detail, but the response to my post was horrible. Later, I realized the blog who struck me down with passionate fury was actually a ‘troll’, but that’s not the point. The point is… well… okay, so maybe there was no point. Does there really always have to be a point though?
I was reading a book on existentialism today, after my math class while I was waiting for my boyfriend to get off classes, and I couldn’t contain my laughter when I read about Nietzsche and his nickname for the human populace: herding animals. I guess that is true, I mean, if there is some humor to it, I must identify it as truthful in some way in order to think something of it. If it weren’t accurate in some way (no matter if it is in an obscure way), I would have just scoffed and continued reading, likely thinking ‘stupid philosopher’s, they are worthless’. This isn’t how I feel, because I love philosophy, especially the philosophy of more morbid topics, but at the same time, is it ‘good’ philosophy if no one can relate to it or find some form of connection to the ideas being presented.
I enjoy writing fiction…
I have so many different characters and worlds I just don’t have any ideas for them to use and interact with. What’s a story without a plot?
Sometimes I feel like running in circles and screaming before bashing my head against a wall. Why do I feel like this? Well, I have such great characters, they deserve to be heard. It’s gotten to a point where it’s not me that wants to write about them (well I do, as well) but my characters are so convincing despite their fictitious worlds and powers that they want to be heard, they want to have a life. A life I cannot give to them. This is why I feel like screaming and punching things, because I cannot give people (yes, my characters are people) a life.
I read today, in my book about existentialism, that Søren Kierkegaard believed in existing. “Well duh.” Give me a moment to explain. Kierkegaard made it a point to say that our existence is based on individual thought, that we are only existing if we are self-aware of our existence. I know, it confused me a little bit too. I often say “I’m not living, I’m simply existing” in reference to my depression and anxiety, but after reading about Kierkegaard, I have a hard time saying that anymore. How does this relate to my characters? Kierkegaard believed that when we exist, we must have a desire to exist, a desire to live. That we can only desire things that directly affect us in order for our desire to give us life, to give us existence. Things like the sun shining and for God to be real; these things do not directly affect us. We have no way of making the sun say hello and greet us everyday and we have no way of finding out if God (at least the Christian God) is real. But if we exist for a purpose, a direct and goal-oriented purpose, then we can live.
Philosophy is difficult. Why am I even reading about this sort of stuff? Well, I want to sound smarter because I like appearing smart even though I’m quite average. Once again, however, how does this relate to fiction, characters, etc?
Well, I cannot give my people life, and I know it’s because I cannot give them purpose in which to exist. Therefore, like I stated, I have no plot. It goes a little deeper than that I think. If we continue with Kierkegaard then we could go into despair which is the absence of the will to exist completely, but that’s a little on the depressing side of things and my medicine hasn’t been working so great. I would rather not bum myself out and sleep for the next twenty hours after crying for a long while, but still.
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