I have been reading such a lot for the past three or four months or years. Half of me has been wanting to research properly, like Ph.D. students do. So I have been taking references and doing research as to the reliability of sources. I am a member of a copyright library and am a librarian so I know about reliable documents. I want to be sane and sober and reliable. My motivations are as pure as I can make them.
I don’t think it is possible for a human being to be disinterested but I am determined to try. Which defeats my purpose.
And on and on.
I want to put my hands on what is true.
And the other half of me has been observing confusion, and conflicting sources, and bias. In myself and my research. And that’s okay. Because I am more interested in people’s opinions than I am about the facts. I understand that that the facts are not accessible. And feelings are more true than facts.
And what are facts anyway?
I am deleting such a lot I want to write here and in my book and I am not sure I know the reason why.
I feel sad. There are hundreds of sentences and no-one would ever believe me. I am a fictionist. I lie a little lie a lot. I am more interested in fiction. I’ve made a bed to lie in. Lie in.
I have redrafted the previous sentences many times in order to make them seem less dramatic and narcissistic and silly. But it is the nearest to what I want to say.
I have even toyed with the idea of scheduling this post way into the future. Some of you will think I am speaking about Cold Light. You haven’t met that one yet, but it’s nearly done with for me and I am well into the next. Which is the one I am thinking about.
That’s all. Wish me luck. I have such things to say I don’t mind too much about sounding like a prick. People who mean things sound silly.
I am off into the novel.