I just posted several old short stories/short artistic pieces which I didn't see fit to publish in my original spree of short story-publishing in November and December 2014. To be clear, I actually think these pieces are meritorious, and that I erred in not publishing them originally. I want the Reader to know that, despite appearances, I am being selective; there's plenty of shit that I wrote between late 2012 and late 2014 that I will never publish here. I wrote a lot of stuff in this time, just as I write a huge amount of stuff now.
I was inspired to go through my old stuff because I finally got around to starting Dubliners today on the train, which H read and recommended to me in 2014. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, (which I read, I think, in 2013) is probably my favourite novel/novella, and it was an extremely powerful artistic inspiration for My Bleak Memoirs (which I often thought of writing/tried to write in the third-person using free-indirect style - and I have written a lot of autobiographical stuff in the third-person).
I may try my hand at fiction once more in the near future. I have always struggled to write serious fiction without a character who is me, and this is probably still true (the reason is essentially just my misanthropy/misanthropic narcissism (can't stand imagining for more than a second what it is like to be a person who doesn't think like me, or know and understand the things I do))...
This update has been almost an hour in the making, because I have been on my bed thinking various thoughts that I obviously won't try to describe in any detail. I have noticed in the last few minutes, as I began to type this final paragraph, an abeyance in my buoyant attitude towards my own artistic productions. I feel now a familiar nihilism and dread. For what purpose am I living? Why do I go on doing the things I do?
Moods, eh?
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