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.
- Want to be a writer? Bukowski might make you think twice. (mattlongwrites.wordpress.com)
- Fucking trash bag. (adamraybain.wordpress.com)
- Why is everyone so fucking lazy and defeatist? (weemanmike.wordpress.com)
- Fuck Yeah, Fat Journalist (pleasantlyfat.wordpress.com)
- Since you said you wanted to know me (talkatease.wordpress.com)