I like being a miserable writer.
I don't view writing as a pleasure. I don't attain a fleeting sense of ecstasy from the conclusion of an inspired thought, as I feel has become expected of we the artists existing in this time of spiritual evolution. We the Indigo Children acknowledge our lack of regard for the social structure imposed upon us, our disdain for the monetary system which invades our true freedom, the overhead music and billboard advertisement and radio announcement screaming "CONFORM! CONFORM!" Some of us have evolved beyond the permissible pre-packaged life, some of us are still trying to break the mold or at the very least, rearrange the furniture of our lives. Regardless, I was grandfathered into a privileged inner circle of writers who stood on the front lines of protests, in the deep jungles of war-torn countries, the writer's who wrote about being down and out while spending their last shillings on a fifth of Bourbon, writers who tore recklessly across South America on mopeds, writers who pummeled down the treacherous hills of San Francisco high on hallucinogens. I belong to the company of players who exercise their demons by Howling at the institution "FUCK YOU! I'll sleep on the sidewalk if I dare and I'll kiss men and women in the same evening. I'll wake up regretful only that I didn't smash every storefront window of the shopping district on my way home last night."
Writing centers me, it takes the hype and the spectrum of emotional extremes out of the my head and onto paper. It depletes me like a gentle orgasm, after which I feel happily void of all expectations and aspirations. I just am, existing outside the confines of discernible time and space. My perception is neither focused nor distracted. Writing is my meditation, my sabbatical from responsibility, my retreat from the hundred year war waging inside of me between the voice in my head and the song in my heart.
Ryan recently said he felt defeated that Truman Capote had his first work published at 23 and as far as Ryan could tell, Capote never had another job other than writing. I couldn't provide any form of eloquent encouragement to lift the despair on his heart. At one time I felt a connection to an endless tap of sagely wisdom. I drew from the well of benevolence in hope of keeping everyone's head above water but that supply has long since dried up as I have reached an age of realizing that my philosophies are fallible in the face of life. All I could think to say to him was "Do what makes sense to you. Don't get detoured by the bullshit anymore. When you focus on your passion, everything else ceases to matter."
I know his struggle. It is my own. Foremost we are soul mates and secondly, writers cut from the same bolt of fabric. I have looked around me time and again, nauseatingly intimidated by the possibility that there are better writers than me, or worse, that there are writers with more drive and less talent whom will achieve the level of success I desire. (See "Twilight" for a prime example) It's never about the money, but the notoriety, the acknowledgement from friends, family, community that I've MADE IT! I AM A LITERARY GENIUS! I have produced a piece of work sanctioned by the common reader! For some emotionally complex reason, an endorsement by the mundane means nothing and everything to either of us.
Bukowski once wrote in response to a woman who threw herself on stage demanding that he fuck her, "Where were you when I was living on one candy bar a day... and sending short stories to the Atlantic Monthly?" That's how I feel about retail work and Ryan comparing himself to Capote's youthful acclaim and the discouraging audiences made up of our most beloveds and being a "happy" writer. Fuck that.
Happy is the writer who wakes up to smoke a cigarette, takes a long shit, a long shower, a long walk without interruption, absorbs the grimy Westport streets under the brooding grey overcast and makes note of the thin line between themselves and the aimlessly wandering homeless. Happy is the writer who bargains for another day, another smoke, another warm meal and stares at the sidewalk while smoking that cigarette hoping the blustery day will entangle a lost $20 bill in their shoelaces. Happy is the writer who has convention to nestle up with when the last adventure was as depleting as all those before, meaning it encompassed coast to coast absurdity and thankfully, ended with a spell of domestic tranquility. Everyone needs to recharge, even the willingly insane. Happy is the writer who counts the number of ceramic burro's on the porches of little Mexico residents. Happy is the writer who voyeurs a screaming match between dope fiends with pants too short and hair too tall.
Happy is this writer kept alive by the guilt of never completing the masterpiece. If you ever think you're good enough to stop, you weren't good enough to begin with. You must keep experiencing, which will in turn keep you working. Nothing else matters because....nothing else matters. I don't know what sort of internal struggles Capote faced because I never had the chance to ask him. But I assume they are struggles similar to what we all face or he wouldn't have drank himself into oblivion. Thompson and Hemingway and all the others...masking the insecurity of losing their coveted titles because they wanted both safari's and a house in the Hampton's. It's hard to make peace with who you are when the building blocks of your self are from every era, culture and civilization. Sometimes brick and mortar crushes buffalo skin and wooden poles...the Underwood doesn't fit in the laptop case and Moleskin doesn't allow the immediate posting of genius thoughts to a limitless social network and sometimes creative writing courses can be suffocating.
Ryan, the statistical probability that most of us will drop off the scene once we buy houses or have children or find full time jobs is the creation of technological dunces with nothing better to do than calculate who didn't have the gusto to do much more than write a sci-fi short story. The drop-out's weren't writers from the soul, they were writers who learned a simulated craft in the classroom of some community college and had neither the talent nor the patience to find and explore and share their voice. Writers are writers before they are humans, lovers, parents, siblings, children, employees. True writers never quit because it's as impossible to halt as blinking.
I hope you never numb out the voice that urges us to drop acid right before a funeral or a baby shower, because that voice is your voice, that voice is my voice and when that voice dies, we will have lost our senses of self. Don't just pray it never comes to that. Don't let it come to that. Be as miserable as is required to create something beautiful.
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