the writing life

Since I was a kid I wanted to become a writer. Now I have become one. I don't say that about myself usually, but often times you have to reaffirm your role in life when the bastards are trying to make you into something you are not. I am a writer, a writer of poetry and fictions. Whatever else you say, you cannot hold this against me. Because the truth is that people know little about writers as people, because often times people fail to listen to what writers have to say. People should listen though. Writers are full of wisdom. They eat wisdom with their breakfast.

My goal in life is not to travel anymore. I have seen enough of the human creature to know that character studies are best drawn up at home. I have seen enough of the world, not to call myself worldly, but to call myself seasoned. People call me an old soul sometimes. Maybe they are right.

But what I really want to say is that you too can write. It takes work, patience, and takes you to the edge of madness, but you too can sit down with a dollar pencil and sketch out a scene from your day. You too can drink coffee in cafes, propped with a notebook and record what you see. It is truely that simple.

But the grace of writing comes from the antiquated notion of what human beings call a soul. If you don't have one, maybe you shouldn't be writing. There is enough of that. Works on sexual escapades that are tantamount to the common biology of a half a million year old species, works on gossip, cute little books about how to really stick it to someone you hate, these have proliferated bookstores in the place of modern literature. It is possible that the people with souls grew frustrated long ago and quit, saying goodbye to their faith in the human race. It is possible that the people with souls hid underground long ago, for fear of what their former captors would do to them should they show them the light of the soul.

Soul is such a cliche word; you can substitute 'life' or 'essence' but I prefer to call it 'flowers' or even milk toast with a slice of tomato, because the people without flowers are jealous of the people who have grown them, the people without tomato sandwiches are jealous of the ones who have them. It is the old kindergarden game from here to eternity. What do you have that I don't? Please give it to me so I can ruin it. And so on.

But writing is also a means of developing the soul. If you don't have one and you want one, start writing in all honesty. Write about what a sexist prick your drug dealer boss is, write about why you hate paying eleven bucks to go sit in some fridge of a movie theater, write about the time your father took you fishing for trout at some lake overgrown with weeds, write about anything. Because the place that you write from is your home, it is the talent of the heart that you are developing, not some way to become famous, sexy, cool, sleek, clever, or a hit at cocktail parties. I never liked people who were hits at parties anyways. They always struck me as insecure masturbators who failed at getting laid because they tried too hard. Writing is like that too. You really can't be a hit, or try to hard. It has to come out as it will, maybe a trickle there or here, sometimes a frightening torrent, but its always there.

Writing is a home. As a home, it is a good place to start building, to invite friends over to look at your accomplishments, to sing the praises of humanity and to sing their curses like a wild bore. Because lets face it, the reason people don't write is because they find it boring. Compared to a machine that gives you a thousand orgasms a minute like television, writing seems like a complete and boring old waste of time. But it's not. It teaches you to trust your mind, even the lunatic ideas that keep you awake at night, wondering if you are a paranoid schizophrenic with multiple personality disorder who might be a liability to loved ones. But you're not. You are uniquely you, and so is your writing.

Lets face it. People can be jerks. If you decide to dedicate yourself to the writing life, people are going to make fun of you. "What are you doing in there, pecking away by yourself with all these imaginary characters?" Well, writing, you should say. But it is easier sometimes to break down and cry, to blame the act instead of realizing that the people around you are insecure in their own occupations, so they want to take it out on you for finding something that appears to be bringing you actual and genuine joy. Don't listen to these people, as much as you want to. They have no idea what they are doing, and can't even do a half-assed job of anything. Sometimes they are clever liars, but that is about it. There is no need to even talk to them, unless you are planning an extravagant character study.

So what I am saying is to write. Get up from your sofa or bed, place a pen on the page and move it in little spirals until you get enough gumption to form words, which will string themselves into sentences, which in turn form paragraphs. Who knows, you might be on your way to your very first novel. Just sit down, and write.