Saturday, November 9, 2013

How I Got Bizarroized

I read from a young age. I started with Agatha Christe, then I passed on to Stephen King and Neil Gaiman. Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov, Philip K. Dick, Arthur C. Clarke followed. Bizarrely, I just got into the Harry Potter books at a later age, and fell in love with the series. The Lord of the Rings I read in three days as part of a bet (I know that today this don't seem like a big deal, but I was sixteen, and reading that colossus of a book was a big achievement for me).
I was getting older and continued reading books by renowned authors. William Golding, Henry Miller, Anaïs Nin. Whatever caught my eye, I would read it.
When I was seventeen, I began writing.
Correction: When I was seventeen, I began trying to write.
I had infinite story ideas. Whole worlds bloosomed right in front of me, weird characters seemed to born from some uterus in my head.
I participated in a online writer's workshop, which made me friends I still have to this day. But I never produced nothing of quality, except for a story or two.
I had MS Word panic. That black cursor on the screen seemed more like crosshairs aiming at me. Things came out wrong, they hit the paper differently. The beautiful babies I spawned in my Mind's Uterus came out deformed. John Merricks in literary pieces.
There was a time I began thinking that I had no talent at all. This is common, different people had different talents. I played bass guitar, in bands, and I always thought of myself as a good musician, maybe my talent was that one. But then why did those ideas popped up so profusely in my head?
This year, I discovered Bizarro.
My God.
The things I read, they made me smile.
How did I not know about this? How could I lose time like this? Suddenly, it made sense: All the ideas I've ever had went through some sort of cultural filter between the uterus and the paper. I was trying to fit in some (let's say "mainstream") style or genre, and this was sullying my thoughts. This was the radiation that was deforming my beautiful, chubby, pink-cheeked babies.
Today I can sit down and write something I will not hate afterwards. I'm writing a novella, something that was unthinkable for me. I couldn't see me writing anything longer than short fiction. I'm trying to be part of a community that is, unfortunately, a continent away, but I still try. I friended a shitload of people on Facebook, just for being writers or people involved in the genre.
Please don't worry, I'm not some creepy psycho stalker.
I'm just trying to be a part of this wonderful community, that I just now found.
Thanks for reading


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