My Fictions

I am a big fan of fridge magnets. The ones with the pithy little sayings that are simultaneously trite and meaningful. Sometimes there's no way to say something important, after all, without seeming a little hackneyed and sentimental. Look at I love you.

Anyway, I found a fridge magnet today with a good one on it. If you tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything. Lord, how many times have I been caught trying to remember the exact details of the last fiction I created to get me out of what George Clooney would call "a tight spot".

A few people have commented on the increasingly self-exposing nature of Suffolk Punch. What's the value of telling the whole world (which I am doing at least potentially here), so much about my lost love, my depression--if that is what I've had--and all the other stuff that goes into these posts? (Commentators scratch their heads in general about the confessional side of the infinitely various blogging world.)

Well, I don't know about any other bloggers, but I'm telling more and more so I can learn more and more. I'm deliberately dismantling my fictions because I've realised (see other posts) that the fictions stand between me and the world. They give other people the wrong idea, causing them to expect either too much or too little of me, and they make me depressed and angry when the hard of evidence of my own actions or my life in the real world fails to sustain them. My fictions have laid waste to the better part of the last two decades. They've become pretty damn boring too.

The change in the nature of this blog represents an attempt (sort of) to uncover the real me and meet the world without the armouring of all the old bulls**t. Stripping that away seems to be the best chance I have to avoid spending the rest of my life a miserable, arrogant old fool.