Today is a sad day. 

Death, in and of itself, is a sobering thing to witness.  It automatically brings to mind mortality issues such as meaning, amount and quality of life.  When death hits close to home, these questions become personally connected and emotionally touching.  The theoretical solidifies and is suddenly applied in a tangible way.  But suicide is something different entirely.

We learned this morning that a friend and neighbor had taken his own life.  The news was especially shocking considering he seemed, by all accounts, to be content and secure in life.  But, basically, I’m deeply saddened to realize that he had reached a depth of despair from which he saw no salvation. 

Our friend touched many lives, and he did so by simply being himself and portraying it honestly (for the most part) to others – a trait I envy. 

I’m continually frustrated with the lack of true relationship between humans.  We seem to daily, hourly, momentarily choose falsehood of some form or fashion over truth in its barest form.  (Really, anything less than purest truth is a lie, yes?)  As a result of this bitter frustration, I form a defense by choosing emotional isolation over false relationship.  This works in the short term.  I’m well guarded against false interaction offered under the guise of friendship, relationship or family. 

But the most obvious catch, the chink in this well-constructed armor, is the fact that I have essentially eliminated all possibility of true relationship in the process.  Our friend’s suicide is glaring evidence of a relationship failure, even if the failure itself is obscure.  In the end, did my friend fail to offer up his true self or did I fail to offer mine?  Sadly, I’m left to wonder indefinitely.     

When my main project stumps me, I resort to the easy stuff.  Another short to break through the writer's block. 

Episode 1, Part 2

            Harry’s part-time assistant – slash – wannabe model – slash – jail sentence waiting to happen was pushing through his office door as he was leaving.  Despite the bad bleach job, the fabulous boob job and the terribly misguided ideals, Jill was a good kid and a decent receptionist. 

            “Going out?” she asked, dropping a gigantic gold purse on her desk as she passed.

            “New case,” Harry said, shrugging into his favorite Padres jacket.

            “Good.  We need the money.”

            Harry growled something incoherent.

            “Not good?” Jill asked, snapping her gum as she flipped through the files in her inbox.

            “No.  Not good.  The opposite of good.”

            She shot him a questioning look with two perfectly drawn eyebrows. 

            “Jo roped me into helping with a political case,” Harry explained and patted his jacket pockets until he was satisfied they contained at least two cigarette lighters. 

                                                                             READ MORE of Part 2

                                                                            CLICK HERE for Part 1

“Hi, my name is Hilary and I have Point Of View Syndrome.”

I understand the general idea:
  • first, second or third person
  • pick one
  • stick with it
  • maintain consistent verb tense
Yet, the red scribble I receive most often includes the three dreaded letters: P.O.V. 

First person is easy, but I rarely use it.  This blog, having only been around a few short months, has already gotten more 'I's, 'me's and 'my's out of me than the remainder of my writing years combined.  Only two characters have spoken to me in first person.  They are my recurring short story characters.  Not much use in a novel. 

So, my condition persists.  And I’m beginning to fear it’s terminal. 


Copyright 2012 - Split Fiction