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She said “Write, you fool!” and I thought “What the hell, why not.” But I have a bit of a problem. Fictions are fantasies, and realities are so boring. Anytime someone tries to pass of a story that can keep you entertained as reality, or a life story, etc, they’re lying. The realities worth telling are in sealed or highly redacted files. The protagonists go away: bought out or “taken out” or driven insane.
This is the nature of engaging and meaningful stories: they reveal something greater and deeper about the power structures that control you (be they political, corporate, academic, romantic, artistic, or other) and thus are dangerous to someone. Someone with more power than you stands to lose something if the story is heard.
There’s someone out there who would take the story as inspiration, some postmodern Robin Hood, some silly Raskolnikov, and then those people with the purse strings find some dissent to their order. To allow us to tell stories is to allow us to speak against them. Nobody wants to hear the story of Goliath beating David. The cynics (like the hero of this story) have a saying that every joke has to be at someone’s expense. And it’s commonly accepted that every story has to have a tension.
To create tension, there has to be a bad guy. So who’s the bad guy? The big guy? Is Goliath the hero? Are they gonna let you other little men and women out there hear the stories of the ones who’ve beaten them in the past? Under wraps my friends. That’s where they keep the stories worth telling. The power of storytelling is mighty, indeed.

That’s why, with the help and prodding of a little pixie yelling from at my shoulder, I think I might have a story worth telling.

I wanna start some shit.

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