It had to start like that. With the precarious English (British) phrases, the belligerent ”bloody hell's” and the awkward language loaned from half-demented characters on the weekly ”Midsomer murder” series.
Shelves and shelves full of nothingness and than the craving. The craving for the nameless. Something to fill everything with. It was definitely not love she'd been after. That was there already. Filled the quote and pouring out on everything else but still not enough. It was a ”nameless, featureless, smellless” deeper, colder, rationale and fulfilling craving. Not all consuming though. There were none of those cravings left.
Most days work could fill it up.When work-,love-, social-, private-, real-, virtual- lives ( are there really only seven basis for ones normal experiences in life or is it > 7 ?!). So, if not normal life could spill over on the rest of the emptiness it was books. After all it was a known fact that work couldn't do the trick. We work to get paid (i.e. eat) not get paid to work - or whichever way the quotation goes. Mind you the books were different depending on the kind of emptiness that needed filling. If work and company had done their job than it was the rationality holes that needed mending and what better way to do that than letting a nice thriller or ”crime” novel try to do it. The void became time consuming words where a lead to b and all the way to z with a few stops on the way to satisfy the author's need for comedy, tragedy or just the good ol' ego of being a ”real writer”.
But than again if the craving for rationality and togetherness had been filled than out came chik-lit with the lovey-dovey, ”feathery-strokery- TM of M.Keys”, melancholic, self indulging, beautiful, glamorous, ironic books.
There was never any need for the really deep though. It was as if the emptiness would explode within itself and become a black-hole instead where normal life didn't exist cause in dissecting itself it had produced a myriad of small normal lives dissecting themselves further and further and further apart.Even the abstraction would provide a headache and the craving would go numb but not filled as one of those ginormous moon craters. So she steared clear of them (them being the deep abstract thought of who are we).
It had to be something in between. Not too deep, not to shallow, mediocre at best. Comforting like a pair of flowery IKEA bed linen paired in their mismatchedness with the nerve screeching turquoise and brown pillowcase.
And the point of it all?. None. Really. Just a gush of words that didn't have the decency to let themselves be forgotten or flushed away with the Aquafresh mouthwash. A doorepost to another fantasy world jammed with elves and gnomes and more witches than anyone could count and less dragons than anyone would bother to think of.
Still the beginning. More words would follow. Decent amount of nonsense and cut-throat logic (where did that come from) spilling over into some area of non-expertise. Anyhow. If it had to be a book it would have to have an ungodly manner of behaving in it. Otherwise it could just as well not be written. Nor planned, nor wished for. Too bad you couldn't stop the thinking though. Unfulfillable bastard craving.
...it would have to be invented.