This is where the pain starts. This is where it ends. The finger stroke caress of the keys. The abrasive glow of the screen in an otherwise dark room, void of content. Here it finds me, desirous of everything and nothing all at once. An empty bottle of hope still present amidst the deteriorating flavor of life.
She sleeps, shrouded in ease. Another warm evening spent strategically separated, the thin sheet keeping the monsters at bay. Thoughts of distant worlds dance in my head and collide in perfect violence with the monotony of living. Live less, write more. Or the opposite.
When who we hope to be finally meets the person we’ve been all along, a desperation departs. It’s a magic moment.
So now what? Where do we go from here? In all of time, it’s never been easier to make a living as a writer. “A living” … money. That isn’t what this is about though. Do I love this? That’s a romantic question. Am I good at it? That’s an honest one. I’d say I am, good at writing that is. What would happen if I dedicated my full self to this endeavor. I have never before committed myself to a profession for more than a couple of years. I’ve always been afraid to discover if my initial successes were flukes. Sure, I know how to punch a key, but am I that good? am I as good as I’ve been sweet talked into believing? Perhaps I don’t have to be. I read Hemingway and Kerouac and Thompson and it’s not because they’re the best writers. I read them because they interest me as human beings. Am I an interesting enough human being to add my name to a list like that?
When will I know I succeeded in life? Will there be a feigned smile and gold watch on an arbitrary day announcing to the world I’ve effectively paid my dues?
She wakes, upset. It’s well past two and the obnoxious glow of the screen combined with the intrusive nature of cat stirs her unrest. It’s all just a pile of words, until you can make someone feel something with them. That’s what real writing is. Tangible success in a world of emotion is a gracious review. Pretentious faux elevations from professional critics remain the high praise, self-stroke, glutinously fervent devouring ego, maintaining narcissistic motivations.
Praise. Fulfillment. Finding a voice in the world.
