The/my writing that I seem to remember from the mid 1980's was very much like the pulp science fiction of the mid century. In some fantastical way it was that very same pulp fiction (at least if I am factually accurate in my co-creation of PKD's works, but alas, we will probably never know). It will always be an instinctual thing, a gut feeling. A divine knowledge. The writing seems to me equivalent to the mind of a teenager, one somewhat in tune with the times. My mind. Almost immature to be sure. Like a child's active imagination. If I did indeed find some way (insert myriad methods here) to help Phil create those stories then what is the equivalent today? The stories I am creating and will create are to be fashioned after what likeness? All I can do is to try to sell them in today's market, this present world, because I have no idea if/when some remnants of these stories will be ferried off to a distant universe or the past or wherever or whenever they are destined to go. Are they to be literary in nature? There really is no decent paying market for pulp fiction anymore. Anyway, I have evolved since my time as a teenager. Not always for the better, but evolved nevertheless. I am both more sophisticated and more tortured. I'm not sure I'm up to the task of literary writing. I'm more of an ideas person, as you can imagine. And I feel my ideas and execution must be perfect. It's this kind of rut and obsession in my thinking that keep me from being productive. I just don't know what to expect of myself. Perhaps it is someone else's turn to mystically help me. Universe... Pay if forward.
No answer...
As I thought...
I am my own and on my own I will.
