Microfic: The Artist; And Why I Am Sometimes Ashamed of What I Write
And now a body has been found, completing the palette. These are the colors of madness, says Inspector J. But no, he is wrong: these are the hues of things lost and found, and in the great karmic rally, something else is now lost. I, alone, understand this.
When Inspector J finds me, he will know this in his losses, tallied to equal mine.
I get tired of all the serial killer fics written in first person. And yet, I write them. I sometimes feel shame in what I write, and only hope that I find some new way of relating the cliche.
Because the attempt to write something totally new, never seen before, well, that is an exercise in futility. Perhaps, in the end, one can only hope to make the old seem new again. It's not likely I will do this, but I keep making the attempt. I get the strength to continue on this odd road by thinking that I might have another forty years to get it right. Which doesn't seem like a lot, and I wish it was four hundred. If there are robots before I die, I'll give one my thought processes and program it to continue on. That's even better. It may perfect the story before it rusts. Or, given its robot brain, come up with something truly new and unique.This is even more hopeful than thinking about writing for another forty years.
If you get a robot, please do not program it to destroy my robot.