Why, I Write Fictional Works, And How

Every Story, The Greatest Of Writers Have Said, Had Their Own Story. And, So, I Give Some Inklings Of The 'How And Why' My Fictional Works Here. Come With Me, Gain Awareness, And Enjoy Some 'Stories Behind The Stories'. Please, Read On...

My Metaphysical Fiction Works evolved from my nonfiction works. At a point in my writing journey, back in 2014, I felt I was writing too many nonfiction works.

Way back further, when I was but 16 and I made my first attempts at writing, I ventured on the rough, strange and sweet-sour path of fiction.

I thought writing nonfiction was very easy.

If you consider someone who is a business and project consultant for years, writing nonfictions wouldn’t be much of a disaster than confronting fictional works.

I wasn’t good at storytelling, not in the least, at least the verbal rendition. Wait. That’s if I compared my verbal narrative skills with that of my maternal grandmother. She was a rarity amongst all I have listened to who told a story.

It wasn’t only for her amazing voice; smooth, gentle, tensional where necessary, cooing…wondrous. No, it was not because I loved her so very deeply, like I have loved none, except one other. And, it wasn’t because of the richness, chilling frightful, greatness, strangeness, sweetness or meaningfulness of her stories, no.

It was the way she rendered the pieces of her stories, apiece and together; splitting them here and there, affixing them with embellishments yonder then here, then there, and conflagrated the suspended emotions and reasons in the flaming storms of crescendos that erupted our minds, my mind in particular.

How I survived her storytelling was a wonder. Whenever I resorted to my bed, I'd lived her stories, inadvertently, with their turmoil, terror, sweetness, laughter and lessons. I lived her stories in my dreams, and as nightmares and daydreams. I lived them as moral compass, using them to nudge my actions away from ills of emotions, mind and being.

Grandmother was a rarity. She was a great grandmother, and I loved her, still do, I guess I'll continue to so do for so long as I carry her memories in my open consciousness.

So, I said ‘hold on to your hoods’ to my nonfiction works, and I launched into storytelling.

My first work was “The Time Thief & The Wood-God of the Forest of Lives”. The story was cooked from three ingredients, viz., dreams, my research into the subject of ‘Time' and a successful wrestle with my extra-wild imaginations.

As soon as the first story was done, albeit incompletely, I launched into my second story. “Demi: A Sorceress Unyoked By Love” resulted, but was a very stubborn piece. It was supposed to be “The Making of the Sorceress-Prostitute”, but the story refused to write as such. It insisted writing as “Demi: A Sorceress Unyoked By Love”.

I 'met' 'Demi one late afternoon. I was about to complete a consulting documentation assignment. Mr. Body cried out in discomfort of built-up wastewater which had filled up the bladder to a busting point.

So, I dragged the body bathroom-ward. As soon as I stepped into the bathroom an image appeared to my inner visions. I made no effort to clear it off, as I’m usually wont to do. I chose to enjoy whatever it was.

As I helped my body release wastewater from its tensed bladder, the image became clearer. I was in the presence of a mass of heads which lined up in rows and columns and stretched further than the horizon, beyond anywhere I cared to look. And, everything was plain dark, including the heads. I could only make out the forms and tinges of sparks of lights here and there.

A particle of light called my attention from the furthest and deepest end of the mass of heads, way further than I could easily make a distinction. It appeared as a tiny speck of the tiniest star or spark of photon.

I looked on, wandering here and there with my inner eyes. This tiny speck of light, in no time became larger, looming over and illuminating everything it came in contact as it advanced forward towards my direction.

It beamed on the heads lights, making them clearer to my vision, albeit momentarily. The heads, and their owners, looked like men who were indoctrinated into the arts of regimentation, you know, like soldiers, standing still, like the Eternal Sentinel (the Wood-God, or Arashoui in "The Time Thief & The Wood-God of the Forest of Lives").

As the ever-illuminating brilliant light became clearer and more imposing, I started to make out its form.

Ah! Yes, it was human, at least, humanoid. My consciousness and senses were arrested by now, by this emblazing figure. And, goodness it was a ‘she’. She glided, seemingly, through the multitudes, her flowing, flaming white gown floated after and around her as she progressed towards me.

And, bring the told story to an end, ‘Demi revealed herself to my senses and consciousness, and lo! the entirety of the story was laid bare to my consciousness, as she bared me her intricate and inciting treasures.

And then, "Demi II: Evolution of the Humanoubis" followed soon after. Like "Demi: A Sorceress Unyoked by Love" it was a resistive story. It wouldn't write, until I combined some pieces of other works which I thought were different, separate.

The monsters of my mind and bend that I spoke about elsewhere on this site became appeased with the stories the way they are. And so I am.