Today is a day for excerpts. Fair warning.
I've been pigeonholed by wiki. Seriously. Apparently I believe in post-structuralist theory, as categorized by:
The author's intended meaning, such as it is (for the author's identity as a stable "self" with a single, discernable "intent" is also a fictional construct), is secondary to the meaning that the reader perceives. Post-structuralism rejects the idea of a literary text having a single purpose, a single meaning or one singular existence. Instead, every individual reader creates a new and individual purpose, meaning, and existence for a given text.
That's totally me. And then, out of the blue, it described the literature that I both love and wish to someday write:
The free, post-structuralist style of magical-realist writing characterises itself by unconventional spelling, punctuation and collocation, a use of regionalisms, surrealist and expressionist descriptions, and a variety of genres and registers. Some of the most commonly used rhetorical devices are synaesthesia and descriptions involving the five senses; an isolation or meticulous detailed description of objects; original metaphors and similes, frequent juxtaposition; hyperbole and litotes; repetition; symbolism; sardonic irony, oxymorons and paradoxes; and anthropomorphism.
Of course, what is most striking to the reader often is the 'inexplicable': coincidences, serendipity, consequentialism, and poetic justice or divine justice; supernatural or wondrous powers, abilities, beings or events; prophecies, omens and premonitions.
Anywho, this made me start talking to Tony about the absurdity of being genre pigeonholed before I'm published, and it turned into what's (I guess) going to be the opening lines of my eventual memoirs. Since this blog is supposed to be my speculative memoirs (look at the title graphic, yo) it does belong here:
I was only 22. I've spent the rest of my long, fruit(ful/less) years trying my hardest to fight my way out of my little niche. Like all good fights, I just cemented myself further into my hole.
It's since been (current year - 2008) years since I started cementing my hole, so if this little story comes across a little constipated, I have nobody to blame but myself.
All in all, I blame wikipedia. If there has ever been a more dangerous double-edged sword, it's probably not metaphorical. I've learned enough mind-expanding things to know just how damned I've become because I've peeked over that fence one too many times.
And then Tony offered to have me ghost-write his eventual memoirs. I told him I would, but only in rhyming iambic pentameter couplets. This is what I have so far.
Orwell's bright star shone down on Anthony
Born to a world that played at being free.
Ne'er 'for had man be so caught unaware
to usher in a king both just and fair.
Now he just has to become king.