Who Gives a Fuck? Why Bother Writing?

That’s the thought that has been corroding away my brainstem for the past week or…no, I take that back.  Even throughout all the times when my writing was the most productive, or when I was writing at least a good bulk of material–or both were happening simultaneously (on those very rare and exciting instances)–I still felt this little worm feasting in my head, and asking me: why does any of this even matter?

You ever feel as if writing is this sort of silly, stupid game that you’re playing with other writers?  Like, the whole time, you’re just doing what has been done, or what they do, or trying to hone a craft that really means competition for attention; with all the media outlets there are out there, why should anyone pay attention to me?

Or, even the inverse of that line of thinking tends to make its way into the forefront of the “why write” syndrome.  Take, for example, the thought that most of everything you find at the bookstore is total S.H.I.T.  From that follows the question, why should anyone read anybody else’s material?  I’m damn good!

But I could be doing other, more valuable, things with my time….

The truth is that I don’t have an answer to this question, and that’s why I’m writing this, now.  However, in having said that, I will continue to write.  I will wake up this weekend (probably hung over), and persist in doing something (among a million other things) that may be, in the end, perpetually meaningless, exhausting, and…by the time I’m done…I may well have wasted my entire life perpetually doing meaningless, exhausting things.

The even darker truth is (and this is the large thing that persuades me to write horror, mostly), is this: while I have NO intention of ending my life anytime soon (and please don’t waste your time calling the authorities on this one, seriously), I can’t say that I see much of a reason not to blow off my fucking head.

Yup.  I said it out loud.  I don’t plan on ending my life, I just can’t see any reason not to; speaking from a purely rational point of view, I see no point in being alive.

Then again, I don’t suppose I see any point in dying right now, either.

And that is the boldest statement I can make about my life, because it’s just me–being absolutely and totally fair and honest with both myself, and whoever “gives a fuck” that might be reading this post.

In having said that, I hope that I’ve stated (and thus, written my way to, as I and others often do) my answer–or, at least, a helpful resolve: while there might not be any point to writing (or living, for that matter), I’m going to continue to do it because it’s just in my fucking nature.

Why does a fire burn?  Why does a hurricane swallow a seaside city?  Why does disease spread, the earth turn, or the moon insist on being empty or full?   Why do we even exist?

You don’t know?  Neither do I.  You just don’t ask why a deranged murderer kills forty-something people, or why a four-week-old kitten’s life just has to find its bitter end under someone’s car tire on their way to work.  For that matter, don’t ask me why I fucking write.  Things happen, nature runs its course, and I write because I just fucking do.

And that’s about it.  Or as much “it” as anyone could ever hope that it could be.


6 thoughts on “Who Gives a Fuck? Why Bother Writing?

    1. That poem is about as good advice as you’re going to get when it comes to this sort of thing. And I don’t think Bukowski was just making a reference to bad writers out of mere observance; from the manner in which the piece was written, it seems like he’s just as guilty as many of us are of having actually DONE those kinds of things. I’d bet money that he learned his lesson from a lifetime of both good and bad experiences with the whole craft.

  1. Of all the things I should be curious about, I want to know “Did you really say it out loud?” Or did you just type it?

    I like you’re conclusion. We write because we must.

    Someone told me that writers are important because they help to rip away the callouses on our hearts. I like that.

    1. I like that saying as well. And I haven’t had the audience to say it out loud to yet, but I would if I did.

      Also, I’ve been realizing lately that all of that “embarassment” that comes immediately after saying certain things is the first thing that, I believe, should go out the window when one decides to write.

      So, as I see it: fuck it, because people have said worse and less though-out things than me. No sense in keeping my composure now, after all these years of being the quiet type.

      And there go all those callouses out the window as well.

  2. Hmmm…it sounds to me like you need some help…but I don’t think I know how (or am qualified) to give it to you.

    This post has inspired me to add another page to my site. I’ll let you know the title after I add it…when I get the chance.


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