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Thursday, January 5, 2012

What's My Genre

I feel like a cross dresser. I'm not sure in what category or categories my novel falls. The thought occurs to me that my book is having a schizoid fit. My principal character has a badly split personality, or is that just a result of the alternate reality worlds he slides in and out of with all their attendant quantum entanglements.

This must be the literary equivalent of who am I and where am I going. Is Johnny Oops maturing, growing up, or devolving into a transient human being who thinks he's a prophet and immortal?
Maybe Johnny is dwelling in different virtual reality worlds that suit his purpose at any one particular time. Maybe the world he lives in is all too real for the level of inner turmoil he is capable of dealing with. Perhaps this is Johnny's way of protecting himself from his sexual excesses.

The sex charlatan in him seems to come in undulating quantum waves as his qubits are distorted by passion and insecurity. Johnny wants it, needs it, and has to have relations with a whole bunch of beautiful women, but to what end? Is this the human weakness in the Guru or is he just a Charlatan at heart?

Tumbling from one world to the next reality, Johnny doesn't know if he is real, or the puppet to some super intelligent Game Master. Is he part of a speculative fantasy? Is this the coming of age process for a Genius? Do other people have an inner self that's one foot tall and dresses in a Boy Scout uniform? Do his love scenes trump his deification, and his human transgressions prevent his salvation and redemption?

Why does Johnny question his relevance? Does he have so many second comings or near misses or rebirths because he is in effect a messenger of God, as he sometimes believes? How do you classify Johnny when he jumps from one sense of reality to the next in a flash of emotional response to whatever force is driving him on to try and change the world we live in - which ever world that happens to be at that particular moment in time. How does Johnny fit in when he doesn't really think that he does? Is this madness, debauchery of the soul, or the refinement of a life well spent?

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