With all that’s been happening in my sappy, uneventful yet somehow complain-able life lately, I’ve been writing often. Frequently, I sit at my computer and let my feelings flow from wherever I feel them to the tips of my fingers, bouncing back and forth between cold keys…and no matter what I write and no matter how much time and thought or effort I put into each tap on each key and every entry as a whole, it’s wrong.
It’s all wrong. It’s frustrating. Most writers, they go crazy. They have a masterpiece, one mind blowing novel which does well, usually after they pass, which is a problem in and of itself, but this masterpiece, it empties them. After people buy it and read it and engulf themselves in the art that is this person’s past seven or eight years of writing, the author himself is hollow. They write away all their feelings. No matter what the story’s about, they put too much of themselves in it. They spend every waking second in the effort to improve it and fix it and ultimately go absolutely basket shit crazy. That is not something I desire on myself.
And yet, it is the path I have chosen. The crazy, mad, sweaty writer glaring at his laptop screen like a psycho typing out raw, peeled prose of filth, poverty, and degradation. Hours spent – no, days spent - holed up in my dank room pounding out one atrocity after another. And you know what? I wouldn’t trade it for the world.