Intent, Schmintent.

Every now and then I go out to someone’s author blog or something, and they have a post like, “I’m a writer because when I write I’m GOD. I create entire universes and control everything in them. All of creation and destruction lie in my hands! Mwahahahaha!”
I’m not this kind of writer. In fact, the idea of applying this kind of statement to the way I work is ludicrous. Maybe other people’s creations are better behaved than mine, but on a good day I’m creating consensus between my wishes, the rules of good story, what the characters want to do, and whatever my subconscious has slipped into the text today. On a bad day, I referee (“Sorry, id, story wins”). On the best of all possible writing days, I’m just the typist. I always like the stuff I didn’t intend the best.
My least favorite part of art school was always artist’s statements. I loathe them. If I wanted to write a cheesy essay about Man’s Fierce Struggle With Navel Lint, I’d do that instead of writing a story or making a piece of art. Maybe someday I’ll figure out how to write one that doesn’t feel unbearably pretentious and cheesy and it won’t be so bad, but I doubt it. 😉
I’m sure this entry wins me no cool points whatsoever. I feel like I’m supposed to be saying, “Why, yes, I meant that, because I’m Dostoyesvky! behold my depth and symbolism!” or something. Meh.

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