My Advice on Writing Fiction

I tell aspiring writers that their silly ideas are the best. I tell them to take them seriously, however. Turn what is ridiculous into something believable. Give substance to what is otherwise airy fairy. 

I illustrate my own covers. I create the title fonts. These are distinct from storytelling. It is unnecessary for a writer to do these things. It is good to consolidate your endeavors, however. Doing many things can spread you too thin… but not if they are all the same thing.

I encourage writers to write their sexual fantasies. I advise them to do so tastefully, however. Vulgarity is not art.

I discourage social commentary. Classics such as 1984 and Dune may seem to prove me wrong… but they do not. I read both books. They are limited by their politics. Though as imaginative and immersive as The Arkham Cycle and The Lord of the Rings they prove ultimately inferior. Unlike these other two, the message is not merely an aspect of the fiction, but the actual fiction. They are fundamentally narrow-minded accordingly.

I tell every aspiring writer of fiction that they should begin with short stories. They must keep their ideas simple and the characters few. They must finish each story swiftly and the story must be complete in of itself. I warn that striving to write an epic as the first project is doomed to failure. To try is to quit before finishing or to write something ridiculous. They need experience first.

Reading how to write is a good idea. Reading classics is likewise, and for the same reason. Researching topics is also advisable.

Do not write with movies in mind. Even if the inspiration is a motion picture, write what you write as literature. Movies are instant gratification by design. Books are supposed to be pondered. These distinctions effect depth and pacing.

DO NOT WRITE ABOUT YOUR REAL LIFE or the lives of people you know. Unless you fictionalize the stories, they are inevitably boring. SERIOUSLY! Your dramatic moments are not classics in waiting. Get over yourself.

https://www.deviantart.com/yellowplasma

480 Days

I have written SIX books since December 12, 2022. The last of these was finished on April 5, 2024. I illustrated their covers and created their title fonts in the meantime. 212,137 words worth of story, excluding headings and title pages… in 480 days.

What I finished is not all I wrote. What I illustrated is not everything I rendered.

My creativity is since childhood. Drawings and daydreams became books and covers. I did what I did from the beginning, and with no thought of fame or fortune. I always shared my work, from the beginning. There was never a point to create to keep it a secret.

I am glad when people appreciate my work. I am disappointed when they do not. My efforts were never for praise, however. I sublimate my thoughts and feelings into product. People can understand what I cannot explain if they experience what I mean in context. The art and fiction provides context.

I have perfect self-esteem. I do not mean supreme confidence. Pride is an imperfection that corrupts thoughts and feelings. I appreciate my qualities without embellishing them. I acknowledge my failings without excusing them.

My books are adventurous, violent, sexual and weird. Their covers are likewise. The characters are the stories. Their dialog is the narrative. The social commentary is flippant, part of the plot rather than a message.

I do consider myself to be one of the best writers ever. Of course I am probably wrong. I may also be right. My work is what it is regardless.

https://www.amazon.com/stores/Shawn-OToole/author/B07C28S75Z?ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true

The Holy Ghost Writer

If the Holy Spirit wrote a book, what would he write? Would it be about the Jews beings stupid? Would it be letters to cities? If he wrote about Jesus, would it be from the perspective of anyone but himself? 

Would the Holy Ghost have a ghost writer?

The Bible was written by sinners, to be clear. It was not written by the Holy Spirit. When Jesus spoke of him, he spoke of a person, not of people. The Spirit is an individual, not a collective.

Non-fiction is about this failed reality. It is a failure, to be clear. That is why it shall be burned away and replaced with a new heaven and a new earth.

Jesus taught in parables. The Holy Spirit is the spirit of Jesus. Parables are fiction. The Holy Spirit would write fiction.

What would he write?

It is often asked, “Why does God allow suffering?” or “Why does God allow evil?” and children are often cited as the innocent victims. The answer is quite simple, “Why not?”

Humans fret unfairness… but insincerely. Their “fairness” is what suits them, not what is just. They tout “social justice” but such a “justice” is as corrupt as anything else in society.

Our best fiction is about murder or war. Our best video games are likewise. These things are especially interesting if sexy, and strangely sexy most of all. Humanity was made in the image and likeness of God. The interests of our species are from God himself. This is why he “allows” what he does. By making it real, we have a canonized basis of comparison.

If the Holy Spirit wrote a book, it would be fiction about murder and war, and it would be strangely sexy. Children would be victims.

You may be horrified by my claim. Perhaps you assume God is gentle… even though he kills people… a lot of people. If you disbelieve in God then why are you scared?

TO BE ABSOLUTELY CLEAR: It is not the will of the Father or of the Son that any should perish. They shall see to it, however, on Judgment Day. There is only one sin never to be forgiven, and that is for love of the Holy Spirit. The Father has endorsed and the Son shall condemn to damnation to satisfy the anger of the Lord of Spirits.

Where We Imagine

I bask in a fantastic yet believable setting. I favor sleek and futuristic or cyclopean and archaic. I love a deadly paradise, especially if overgrown ruins are to be found. A desert with ruins poking out of it is just as lovely. A ghost town is always interesting.

I write stories. The settings matter. They provide ambient context.

I do not provide elaborate descriptions. I instead imply things, to establish the gist. The ambiguity is to allow the reader to customize what they envision to their own preferences-- or to make it familiar by default.

A story is its characters. They are the actors. The world is their stage. The stage settings are the costumes of the world.

Sleek and futuristic is modernity as an ideal. Even if a story is dystopian, if the environment is utopian, it shall be appealing. The evil shall be sexy.

Cyclopean and archaic is the grandeur of myth and legend. Even if a story is grim, if the environment is awesome, we shall bask in its glory. The severity shall be thrilling.

Forests and deserts are wilderness. They are nature. Ruins within them are civilization as the artificial humbled by the natural. A ghost town is the loneliness typical of every society.

I am a tourist when I read a book or comic book or watch a show or movie or play a video game. I enjoy where the stories happen as much as what happens. I write and render my own fiction accordingly.

https://www.deviantart.com/yellowplasma

Full Circle

I grew up daydreaming entire stories. I do not mean about myself. I imagined scenarios involving characters I saw in shows or movies. I later, still as a child, imagined original characters. I crafted entire worlds of my own making.

I drew pictures during these early years. I started writing stories when I was in 6^th grade. I illustrated and colored my own comic book pages. As I matured, I focused on writing. I stopped drawing.

I did more than write and draw what I imagined. I also made costumes and toys. I painted and sculpted. Alas, I was eventually doing nothing but write.

Since childhood, context meant everything. An interesting picture was only interesting if it had a story. If it did not, I imagined one for it.

I still write. My stories are now books. I illustrate the covers. I create the title fonts. My creativity has come full circle.

https://www.deviantart.com/yellowplasma

In All Sincerity

I criticized people for assuming I am like them… only to realize I tend to assume they are like me. It is something we do actually have in common.

I am an artist. I always was. Since childhood, I fancy things from an artistic perspective. I drew pictures to express my strange insights. I now write books and compose music. I still draw pictures, but usually to illustrate the covers of my books.

Every sight, sound and feeling is with the idea of how it can all be shaped to optimize their various qualities. I cleanse my inspirations of their uninspiring aspects. I redesign the world to my preferences, and turn it all into stories.

Other people see and hear what suits them, for better or worse.

My idea of perfection is not idealism. Problems are not a problem if they are interesting. My art and fiction are not wishful thinking. They are matters of interest turned into toys of the mind.

Other people expect a perfection they do not expect of themselves. They judge hypocritically. They make excuses for useful idiots… so long as they are deemed useful.

I have perfect self-esteem. I am not proud… but I am not ashamed. I appreciate my strengths but acknowledge my weaknesses. I do not pretend to be someone I am not.

Other people lack self-esteem. Whether they are proud or humble, they are ashamed. They exaggerate their strengths and excuse their weaknesses. Their humility is virtue signaling. They pretend to be what they want to be or what they think others want them to be.

I am better than everyone else. I do forget this. I assume people are like me, and I like them accordingly. They are unlike me. They remind me with their flippant remarks, nasty actions and shameful inactions. I dislike them accordingly.

I admire myself. My admiration is not pride. I was tricked to be ashamed of myself only to admire what I did not know was referring to me. I judged myself unknowingly, and did not find myself wanting.

HE WHO JUDGES HIMSELF SHALL NOT BE JUDGED!

My sincerity availed me.

Sexy to Me

I am the member of a creative group, the Figments. We were together discussing my latest book, The Wayward School for Girls. It was written to be erotica. My friends laughed, telling me that it was not erotica. Its sexual themes were not the story. They were not explicit or gratuitous.

A friend explained that I was asexual. He did not mean that I can reproduce without a mate, of course. He was not saying that I was uninterested in sexuality. His claim was that I am uninterested in copulating… and he was right.

I did not understand myself until someone else explained me to me. I realized I am totally disinterested in plugging myself into other people. I am disgusted by the idea… though I am aroused by fantasies of monsters raping women. The monsters are not me, however. They are not my representatives. I am the unseen observer who delights in watching the worlds I create play out.

I have played tabletop role-playing games. They greatly inspired my writing of fiction. I never played a character based on an idealized version of myself. On the contrary: I chose to play characters very distinct from me. One of them, one of my best, was a coward. He was a loveable coward, however. I loved him and the other players loved him.

My fiction is not wishful thinking. My favorite thing is the easy killing of normal people… yet I do not enjoy the actual killing of real people, whether they deserve it or not. The victims in my work are the armed and uniformed foot soldiers of villainy. They are typically conscripts, however, not hirelings or followers. The villainy is not their own… and that aspect makes what happens to them especially gratifying.

Most of what is erotic to me is nothing of the sort to other people. The sexiest thing to me, ever, is three panels in a comic book. A big and hairy monster grabs a clueless sentry in full armor by the shoulder and over the top of his helm. The monster swings the masked face past the shoulder, snapping the man’s neck with pathetic ease. The sentry is left sprawled at his post, forgotten by the monster who killed him.

My imagination is sexual, but I think in ways unfamiliar to most everyone else. This is probably why my “erotica” is erotic to me but not as the genre.