Scripture and reality, where to draw the line?
The reality surrounds us and we quadrille: plural, appearing in a tangled network of causality itself node crystallization of several contingencies. Fresco multiple forever changing, rich sounds, smells, colors, movements. How can you live and at the same time to escape, maintaining a safe distance, one that enables a being to open the eyes of real lucid, understand to judge? How not to let the real exercise its corrosive effect on our foresight and the weight on our freedom? In my opinion, the answer lies in the creative act, and the maker of words that I am, it's through writing that occurs the resumption of self by self despite a tenacious omnipresent reality.
In a soul, the wind gets up, sits down and being written, he takes his time, he takes words, it takes the best of himself ... But of reality to words, the route is dangerous: it must be transfer this to real words that come and gather. Returning to the words is not a real reduction but rather its transubstantiation: it is a real clean, back to basics, that transcended words will carry. This is where lies the difference between writing fiction and journalistic work: in it, the text should stick to reality, marrying its windings, making the turn, aided in need of sound and image ;; the real story is that one account abundance and thoroughness of the facts supplied. In media market, the reality show is: better to sell her dresses in unique, incredible, this thing becomes shrill and gargle with infamous television channels worldwide.
Nothing like when fiction is to write the actual expense. Writing fiction away then drawing a line between his words and the event. The boundary lies above all in the right which gives the writer, it assigns itself the duty to work it real and never betray. For such a work can happen it must find the right distance from reality. This is the first distance in space, as if they were "push walls" of the event to better understand. When too much glue to things or beings, they are difficult to see. But the distance is in time: the immediate emotion, the shock of the event that the media have bequeathed us a colorful, while it may take over the work. is for the writer, the real return but is not working. Too much emotion distorts the words, excess light shone on the object we are blind and erases a thousand details would have revealed the weak flame of a candle. For the real has an echo, a resonance chamber that reveals the distance. Texts that emerged from the news of the shake so close as to prevent any breathing! These texts do not know an ephemeral existence. Drawing from the supermarket the current, we can write books, you can even sell them, it fails to do writing work.
An important choice governs the work of recasting of reality: sort events, extract what is revealed and what must go in the shade forgetful. Compacted in the thickness of the facts, the question is not what it should deliver, but what can not be removed without seeing the frame collapse, dead. To the question, answers are coming miles, miles are possible choices, as if all written work opened up a gap singular and inimitable on reality. All writes to be a reality only one version: hers.
Through this choice, how far to push the interests of truth in relation to reality? In truth, the "loyalty" to the real wends through the story, a path of infidelity and failure. Is that it is, at once, making the real and break like a ripe fruit, reinvent reality by writing it, move from simple restitution to a truly creative ... the words are stronger than reality, they disintegrate to create another and otherwise.
But this work requires a re-creation of reality on oblivion ... oblivion is another way of remembering. In his book "The Age of clouds," Philip Forrest wrote: "Writing is not memory work but work to oblivion." is, after forgetting (and the slow sedimentation which operates it) so that we can bring to a reality that has taken the time to arise in us and around us. This is where the work begins with the words.
The reality is our destiny, we play him in the partitions that life offers us, those we choose the repertoire of days and others imposed on us; we may even compose some of our own, and there, the time for a book we're stronger than our destiny ...
