GORGED ON FICTION.
It's what happens when I'm writing like this, I can just eat and eat and eat and it seems to inspire the process of writing which is, by definition, an ego-maniac self-gratifying excessive-compulsive-disorder type existence. I guess if I were a rent-boy whore-slut of some kind I'd be gobbling cock with a De Sadean quill in my shivering fist. I'd be shoving gargantuan bucketloads of KFC thighs into my quivering girlyholes A + B = the new spinal drug hit. I'd be fisting my own face like a mono-manical maniac, right down to the elbow, right down to the tricep. Gulping, gulping, typing.
I often get the impression that what I'm living, thinking, dreaming, eating are somehow modulated or blended together on some extra-dimensional level and one can be fueled by the other, you can actually EAT INSPIRATION and you can actually WRITE NUTRITION. You can force yourself to unite the drives and pointers to your Creativity, your Passion, your Kinship by fasting.
Yes, fasting.
Not doing what I'm doing right now which is pigging out on some grotesque binge, some never-ending feast. Food, devoured like this, as part of the creative process is certainly some sort of inspirational technique for a certain kind of material - but it stinks in a way you can't stand for too long but once you've got the scent under your nose you can't stop.
I fasted the other day. Didn't eat for most of the day. The fiction that fell from the keyboard like tumbling jewels of ass-wipage wasn't any less spontaneous but it was a little cleaner, a little more focussed, a little less messy. But having said that, it was the most literally OUT THERE material I'd written since the Hertzan Chimera days - so I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place.
FOOD-OBSESSED FICTION certainly delivers the shameless mountains of gratuitous sausages links of the authentic creative nightmare.
FOOD-STARVED FICTION certainly allows a higher altitude flight of fancy that's as beneficial as the gluttinous material that's the subject of this blogpost.
A writer probably draws inspiration into his body by direct nuclear-fusion interaction with the Sun from whence his original atoms were born and to which his ever-glowing consciousness may still be linked. Connected to the full length and breadth of the Galactic neighbourhood. It's all really about consumption of the stars by creative means. It's probably cross-universe swings and roundabouts in the creative process; just do what works - that should be the Driving Force - be yourself, share your multi-dimensional soul with the Galaxy.
