Stories are magic. I suspect you knew that already. But do you know why? They are private, a writer’s most intimate thoughts and secrets. The purpose of writing a story is to purge the demons. Inside all writers there is a killer and a messiah, a malcontent bent on destruction and an optimist who perpetually sees the glass half-full. It is what gives him the ability to switch in and out of hell and heaven like he has a cosmic remote control.
However, unlike my many awful stories filled with vengeance and violence, I am not. They are merely the vehicle by which I am able to cleanse my inner destroyer. It’s an incredible and remarkably refreshing way for me to do things. For years I took my hate and loathing for others out against myself by drinking dozens (hundreds?) of times into a blackout comas and smoking cigarettes by the cartons. Turns out it did absolutely nothing to help me. It’s like digging your own grave and hoping to get the attention, dare I say the empathy, of those you hate by bragging how deep a hole you have dug. They don’t care and neither should you, but that’s why it’s called self-loathing isn’t it?
My stories indeed are magical… for me. They are my cathartic cleanse, a mental bowel movement. And they are wonderfully transferable to anyone who reads them. Trust me, there is nothing you can’t think to write that hasn’t probably happened. Like James Patterson says, the only difference between reality and fiction is that fiction has to make sense. I’m not as interested about four guys found dead in alley this morning as I am about how they got there and why someone would go to such extremes to feel justified. Could just anyone do that? In my life there have been many times, as both a child and as a man, I have stood to fight and nothing has happened. In every man’s imagination he is Chuck Norris when provoked, like when some jerk flips you off going down the highway or knocks a beer out of your hand at a party, never apologizing. The reality of it, unfortunately, is that bullies never learn. So isn’t it nice to see some scumbag get his comeuppance in a story? Yeah, it is.
Sure, life’s a bitch, then you die. Stories, though, have the power to transform the weak into the mighty and turn injustice into the wrath of God found. Although a story, no matter how magical will not solve your problems, it sure as hell can make you fell a whole lot better if it can help you imagine that guy who slashed your tires last week got hit by a bus today. Or maybe he got impaled on a fence running away from something else and now gets to enjoy life with a colostomy bag. Maybe it’s just me, but is sure is nice to think horrible things can still happen to the degenerates of this world, that maybe there is some kind of warped justice where psychos and sociopaths alike occasionally get a good old fashioned kick in the teeth simply because they fucking should. But, hey, even if I’m wrong, so what. That’s what homicidal-rogue-mob-contract killer short stories are good for.
Or at least that’s how I like to imagine it.