This blog has, basically, two readerships. One is drawn from the something-like one thousand people who I’ve met personally and whose name and face I somewhat know and who are looking at it to know more about the person who sometimes manifests before them in physical form. These people probably came here from my facebook page, or my twitter account, or by googling “Rahul Kanakia” (yay, this blog is finally on the first page of results for my own fucking name).
The other audience is composed of people who find it…somehow, I don’t know how, probably by clicking the link to it from my published stories online. To those people, I am probably primarily an aspiring writer. I am not so worried about them.
But you other people are more likely to know me because I vomited on your futon than because of anything I wrote. So here’s where I’d like to officially come out. I write stories. It is a pretty serious thing. For the last seven years, I have cranked out 40,000-200,000 words a year (for your reference: the Great Gatsby is circa 40k works, Moby Dick is around 300k).
It actually seems kind of absurd when I think about it. I come home and write down stories about people who don’t exist, and those people sometimes shoot equally fictional guns at each other (and sometimes they fall in love, live forever, download themselves into computers, snort cocaine, predict the future, found religions and — far more often than you’d really think would be necessary – usher in some sort of apocalypse). It doesn’t seem to be very in keeping with my image, somehow.
Since I have somehow have drifted over into looking at this blog primarily as a means to connect with those other people, the community of people who read and write stories, I thought it would be useful to formally admit the story-writing. Up until now (and especially when I was in college), I tried to keep the story-writing thing a little bit low-key. I had varying success with this, so it’s likely that most of my good friends already knew about it (especially after, two years ago, I drank a fifth of Bacardi rum and called up half the people I knew in order to tell them about my sale to Nature, and then emailed the other half when it came out).
Personally, I find being an aspiring storyteller somewhat uncool. Like, it’s okay to be a fanatic about model railroads, but you should try to avoid talking about model railroads to people who don’t care at all about them. And…aspiring writers don’t even produce anything that their friends can really enjoy. I’ve seen dozens of my friends showcase their musical or acting skills, and it’s almost always been pretty cool. I don’t know, there’s something about seeing your friend, this person for whom you have all these very personal feelings tied up in their image, transfigured that way – turned into a performer – is really cool, no matter the objective quality of their art.
But anyway…I’ve now progressed a little bit past aspiring. For at least four years, I ignored the requests, by a friend of mine, to send her something I’d written. Last summer, I finally sent her something. So, now I’m not as coy about it (which is good, because I wasn’t really fooling anyone before), and I thought it was time to enshrine that in blog form.