Amidst the musings and the commentary, characters live and characters learn. This is particularly true in Alasdair’s case- and most certainly in mine. Along the way, internal, introspective musings provide him with the insight and balance he seems to need. Sometimes, however, this internal dialogue, this internal back and forth, proves to be problematic.
For instance, have you ever tried to shoot a basketball while the persistent, disparaging beast of an inner critic hacks away at your confidence, your self esteem, your dignity? If you have, you know this to be, at the very least, problematic. And at the very realistic, devastating. You hear people say, “get out of your head.” I usually smile and then muse, easier said than done. But, they do have a point. Over-analyzing anything, regardless of the subject matter, is detrimental. I suppose that’s why they call it over; over being too much, excessive, et al. Alasdair certainly dabbles in both- the balanced, insightful musings, and the detrimental, overly analytic ones.
At the other end, there is commentary. Sometimes, it is the protagonist’s subjective depiction of a particular place, or idea. Sometimes it’s not. Just the casual observations of some third person narrator (And yes, I know I slip in and out of first, second, and third person narrators. It is something I am working on. And will be tackled in the editorial process).
Commentary is an invariable attribute of any personal story. It’s also important, to perhaps aid in the further depicting and understanding of a character, or narrator. In A Thousand Screaming Rabbits, there’s a bit of it. One bit of (casual) commentary I’ve listed below:
The menu lists classic options in diner-style, nutrition-less entrees. There are your hamburgers, your grilled-cheeses, your French fries. Your milkshakes, your sodas, your sugar suffused iced teas. Invariably, there are one or two dishes that attempt to resemble, albeit poorly, nutritious alternatives. And as I pan the menu, I find the cop-outs, the culprits. Dressed up in some faux marinara sauce that routinely accounts for one part ketchup, one part canned tomatoes, one part salt, a quote unquote grilled slab of quote unquote chicken breast rests placidly alongside mother nature’s bastard creations, her abandoned concoctions, the result of some drug induced, five day bender: quote unquote steamed cauliflower, cucumber and carrots. Luckily, breakfast is served twenty-four hours and I pick a bowl of oatmeal, some coffee and two eggs over easy.