Blind (Radio Edit) by Hercules & Love Affair
I began writing a story about a man who sees a photo of himself at an event he never attended, rubbing shoulders alongside people he’s never met. Is it a doppelgänger, a hallucination, a cruelly photoshopped image by someone intending to mess with him? Or did he merely just forget?
I began writing a story about a lonely but harmless man in New York City who begins following women home. He doesn’t have any malice toward these women, with no intention of harming them or even speaking to them. He just likes the act, in itself, of discreetly following women home. Is it possible to build sympathy for such a character? Could anyone identify with him? Or will everyone just end up creeped out? In my opinion, the fact that he has no intention of harming the women or speaking to them makes the story even more bizarre. Readers tend to be put off by characters who do strange things with no clear motivation.
I began writing a story about a man who receives a call in the middle of the night from his ex-girlfriend’s father, whom he never knew that well, letting him know that the ex-girlfriend would be getting married in two weeks. The rest of the story is somewhat of an investigation as to why the ex-girlfriend's father felt a need to call him and tell him this. I’m interested in the various ways we remain connected to peripheral figures in life. Often when couples separate or get a divorce, each person is immediately estranged from their spouse’s family members. In many cases, real friendships were formed with brothers and sisters-in-law, or even situations that involve a mother and father-in-law becoming a kind of surrogate parent. Sometimes (it does happen) people naturally just get along with their in-laws. And in most cases, when the main relationship ends, all the other ones do too, often without any chance to say goodbye. How do we reconcile the idea that there are friendships we make in life whose fate we don’t have any control over?
Inspired by real events, I began writing a fictionalized story about an American woman in Paris who claimed that she was at the Bataclan during the 2015 terrorist attacks. The woman had shown reporters a severe scar that, she claimed, came from that night. (It was actually the result of a mountain climbing incident.) She joined several different support groups, catapulting herself into a community of survivors. Interestingly, the woman wasn’t exiled after being found out but welcomed and accepted with open arms. She had already built relationships with the actual survivors that were strong enough to last a lifetime. The survivors didn’t seem to care that the relationship itself was founded on a lie—they’d been through harder things in life. Besides, they liked this woman and felt empathy for her. The story would pose the question: Is there anything wrong with victimhood as a fundamental sense of identity? Is that worse than any of the other common attributes such as a job, family, religion, volunteer work, or hobbies, that give people a sense of themselves? In one way or another, everyone is more or less pretending, right? The story would be like a darker, more interesting version of Emily in Paris.
I began writing a story about two couples who go on vacation and have a foursome, with each woman getting pregnant with the opposite guy’s kid. I kind of finished this story, but I got rid of the whole pregnancy thing. The story would pose the question: well, no real thematic or philosophical question. I just thought it was a funny idea.
I began writing a story about a middle-aged writer whose feet and hands grow very slightly every single day that he writes. When he gets to the end of his novel, his hands are too big to type, so he dictates the text into a software. When the book is a massive success, he can’t leave his house to participate in any readings or interviews, as his feet are too big to go anywhere. A shoe manufacturer that is a fan of the novel builds him a custom-made shoe. Once I got to the part of the story where the guy builds the novelist the custom-made shoe with all the proper ankle support, etc., I sort of lost interest in the subject. Other than the fact that the novelist would probably never be able to write another book, his immediate problem was solved. He was now able to leave his apartment.
I began writing a story based on the following premise: In late 2023, The Feyenoord Malware began to cause widespread personal and public data leaks and the disruption of government servers, causing national security issues for a multitude of countries. The world chose to go offline, retreating to letters, faxes, and landlines. I approached the topic simply. The whole story is just a conversation between a woman who excels socially in the new, offline world, and a man whose social life has declined miserably. I never finished writing out the conversation.
I began writing a story titled Forging False Paths Not Destiny. I didn’t have a plot, story, or anything in mind. I just liked the title.
Similarly, I thought about beginning to write a story called Deep Love Culture. It was the caption of a mawkishly sentimental photo of two lovers I once saw hanging in the back corner of a decrepit printing shop. My friend mentioned that the caption, Deep Love Culture, would be a great title for a book or a film. I love the melancholic tone that the title suggests, but have not begun writing yet.
I began writing a story about a man who runs into his once chaste ex-girlfriend at a sex party in Berlin. The story would be told by juxtaposing his sentimental memories with explicit descriptions of the ex-girlfriend being defiled in an orgy. The narrator is just a voyeur. Is it possible to even attempt to detach himself from the situation? Would he feel any sense of jealousy or regret? I haven't gotten there yet.
Anyway, my perspective is that the best stories are the ones that end up being written, completed, and read.