We only exist in this song

Stephen King "comments on violent writing and violent acts" in his EW article on Virgina Tech and that utterly unimaginative "real mean" dumbass mass murderer. Said article also gives a link to another article, this one from the New York Times, talking about how Mr. Cho raised red flags regarding his writing. "Anger of Killer was on Exhibit in his Writings," the over-long headline reads.

His English teacher describes his works as "angry" and passed them on to university police. His writing "contained violent images and profane language."

Okay, so the guy's behavior deserved all the red flags that have sprung up. He was uncommunicative, kept to himself, described as "the kinda weird quiet kid who never talks." He stalked women, lots of them, and got held for psychiatric evaluation. When he introduced himself at the first day of class, he said his name was Question Mark.

And his writing was alarming, they said. Previous professors of his are guilt-ridden, wondering if they could have done something to prevent the shooting. After all, they said, the plays were monstrous in their violence, their anger and the, I could guess, undeniable desire to realize the scenes.

Bullshit.

Cho's professor in playwrighting last semester, Edward Falco, wrote an e-mail to his colleagues, trying to put their guilty minds at ease: “There was violence in Cho’s writing — but there is a huge difference between writing about violence and behaving violently,” he wrote. “We could not have known what he would do.”

Tama nga naman, di ba.

I'm not defending Cho. What he did was not only uncreatively horrid and ugly, it smacked of evil brought on by utter boredom, madness and his pagkakulang-sa-pansin. I'm not even defending his writing, though I certainly feel for that. Don't romanticize this idiot. I'm not, and I'm the promotor of romanticizing a range of everything, including one construction worker for an in-class essay, which got the comment, "I'm sure the guy sounds hotter than he actually is."

I'm sure he has redeeming qualities, that there are reasons behind his Unspeakables. But I don't want to delve on that, although it is something I often do, in fiction or not. I don't want to understand him, because right now, he still pisses me off greatly for many, many reasons, the more obvious one is that HE FUCKING KILLED A LOT OF INNOCENT PEOPLE.

So far, I've written about an abortion, a suicide, a depression, a haunting, some memorable tales of incest, a murder, a rape, domestic abuse, incessant menstrual bleeding, adultery, whoring and lots more other things that could brand me as mentally unstable.

Although I do admit to having some shreds of mental and emotional instability, I can still distinguish reality from SashaLand, more often than not. And another thing: I do not write these things to make a point about my madness, to sensationalize violence. I don't write about all the gore and the darker side of humanity just to show you that I can. I'm not even making a statement. I'm not screaming, "Oh, look at poor, unstable, little me!"

I write these things because they happen, they need to happen. Often, I do not have control over my story -- I just write it.

In one way or another, fiction is biographical and autobiographical. But I do not believe that it's enough to be a gauge or even prophecy for someone's homicidal tendencies.

Matakot kayo sa'kin -- I can shoot the un-sissy-fied bow and arrow, and (as I've bragged many a semi-drunken night) I hold my high school's record for dismantling, reassembling, then shooting a rifle and a standard-issue cop gun. And I'm mentally unsound and emotionally wonky. And I've written about ooh blood.

I don't think Alvin Yapan ever gave birth to a bangus that called his name over and over, or wished to. Or that Edgar Allan Poe ever locked someone in a catacomb, or wished to. Or that Anne Rice ever sucked someone's blood in a rather erotic way, or wished to. Or that A.A. Milne had actual stand-ins for Christopher Robin, Winnie the Pooh and his bare ass, and that curious honeypot he is so obsessed about, or wished to.

(You never know, though. Basta. It's all convoluted that way.)

"On the whole," King concludes, "I don't think you can pick these guys out based on their work, unless you look for violence unenlivened by any real talent."

Gah. I've been thinking too much. It's not healthy at all.