Spoilers for everything I’ve written, ever.

Rocks fall; all main characters die.
(I’m serious. Continue only if you don’t mind spoilers, or never plan to read any fiction I ever write.)

Why?

I’ve wanted for a while now to write something more Aria, more Amanchu!—more uplifting, at times empty, at times laden with positive messages. Failing that, something purely humorous. Yes, I’ve written funny things before. Sardonic blog posts designed to amuse through abrasion alone. Ironically tragic ‘creative nonfiction’ that lampoons anyone and anything in order to avoid taking itself too seriously.

Ideas for more pleasant textual endeavors flow endlessly through my brain.

But I never write them.

What I write instead are stories like the Hunter Chronicles. Nothing ever goes right for our heroes, who after uniting and enjoying each other’s company for a brief period are forced to part ways. They only ever meet again as enemies after one of them is possessed by a malicious entity bent upon the unnatural propagation of entropy. The first book leaves one of the two heroes fatally wounded and the other banished (ostensibly forever) to the inferno. Between points A and B, our unfortunate heroes accumulate a score of afflictions and a long record of failures.

What I write instead are stories like “For the Pen.” Our protagonist has failed so hard at everything he’s tried to do in his life that he is obnoxiously self-deprecating. He saves the life of someone who wants to die (accidentally!), in doing so signing a contract with nature that says “please take me and break me.” He and the man he saves try to fight off their fates. Meanwhile the world goes to hell, our protagonist looking on sadly and failing to do anything about it (despite having the power to intervene!).

What I write instead are stories like “The Last Season.” The main character, after seven years of wasting away in a ward for the terminally ill, re-enters the world of the living when her (undetermined and inconsistent) disease seems to have miraculously departed. After a year of building new friendships and new loves, the main character must be readmitted to the hospital. It is unclear if she will ever emerge again.

What I write instead are stories like Tundra of Heroes. The protagonist of each of the three parts faces tragedy. A tavern performer whose alcoholism is his escape from his memories is judged for his sins at the end of a long and bloody journey. An archaeologist whose obsession with his job has robbed him of his social and family life quietly passes far from home while talking to the ghost of his neglected wife. A fallen aristocrat turned psycho murderer joins an army that is invading his homeland in a last-ditch attempt at revenge, only to fail at everything in every way imaginable.

What. The. Fuck.

Seriously?

Seriously?

What is this obsession with failure and misery? It’s there in many of my favorite stories.

AIR sees a young girl slowly lose motor capability and speech as a thousand-year-old curse destroys her from within. 5 cm/s… well, I’ve said enough about that one. Millennium Actress, Simoun, Pale Cocoon, Hanbun no Tsuki ga Noboru Sora, even Honey & Clover, even in the midst of whatever uplifting messages they may or may not carry—they all smell of tragedy.

Bleh.

So many ideas for iyashikei pieces, so many for humor, and yet all I write is this junk. Once I finish Tundra of Heroes, once I drive the last nails into the coffins of my unheroic protagonists, I promise: I am writing something wonderful.

(Up next, barring the need for more gut-spilling: a list of brief story ideas.)