Most writers can be distinguished by four inalienable traits:
1) Their egos. As massive and fragile as Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade balloons.
2) Their ability to be unashamedly self-congratulatory. In high school, I had this amazing English teacher named Terence Oliga who also happened to be a writer. After writing a particularly pleasing piece, he would lean back and pronounce, "Damn it, Oliga! You've done it again!" I blatantly stole this quirk from him and every time I write something that moves me, I lean back, smug and self-satisfied, and proclaim, "Damn it, Oliga! You've done it again!"
3) Their desperate insecurity. It's like erectile dysfunction. They glare at the blank page, seething with an increasingly visceral anger. They stalk the room, clutching fistfuls of hair, wild-eyed and wondering why the words won't come. They lament the death of their gift by drinking until they're either as jittery as hyperactive children on sugar benders or until they slur their words and collapse in a heap - cheap whiskey lingering in the air like rancid perfume.
4) The fact that when it comes down to it, writers are essentially assholes. The worst being the Public Writer. Real writers hate this guy. You know the type -- he sets himself up at Starbucks, laptop and iPod in tow, pretending to be an artsy type when in actuality, he's just a hapless prick who spends more time leering at the cute barista than he does actually writing.
These traits aside, I started thinking about what it means to be a writer. Anyone could be an insecure asshole. Anyone would be egomaniacal and self-serving. But, what defines a writer?Publication? The constant fluttering of fingers over keys? The ability to craft a thicker, juicier sentence than one's peer? The almost orgasmic glee that comes with the organic usage of polysyllabic words?
It's been two years since I had anything published and these days, my fluttering fingers craft more emails than anything else.
This drought lead to a bit of a personal crisis for me. Could I really even consider myself a writer anymore? Am I a neverwas hasbeen? Is this the bit where I start drinking?
I've never written for glory (because let's face it, it's not like I was writing for Rolling Stone, The Guardian or The Times) and neither did I write for money. I wrote for myself. Because I could. Because I was good at it. Because it was the one thing that made sense in a world filled with uncertainty.
For a while, everything I scribbled seemed like effete rubbish. It was soulless and devoid of intellect.....like a Fox News anchor minus that creepy plastic sheen they all seem to have. Lethargy and the daily grind won out over inspiration and I just stopped.
And I hated that. For me, not writing is arrhythmic -- not life-threatening, not devastating, but annoying. I feel uncomfortable in my own skin and impatiently huff until it passes and I can be me again.
My heartbeat regulated itself and I've started writing again. Nothing epic, but I have a good feeling about this. I hope it lasts.
And on that note -- what makes you feel like you? Your ability to talk politics/religion/money without inciting a riot? Your ability to make anyone laugh? Your athletic skills? Have you ever had this ability wane? What happened when it did?
Something to think about...
1) Their egos. As massive and fragile as Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade balloons.
2) Their ability to be unashamedly self-congratulatory. In high school, I had this amazing English teacher named Terence Oliga who also happened to be a writer. After writing a particularly pleasing piece, he would lean back and pronounce, "Damn it, Oliga! You've done it again!" I blatantly stole this quirk from him and every time I write something that moves me, I lean back, smug and self-satisfied, and proclaim, "Damn it, Oliga! You've done it again!"
3) Their desperate insecurity. It's like erectile dysfunction. They glare at the blank page, seething with an increasingly visceral anger. They stalk the room, clutching fistfuls of hair, wild-eyed and wondering why the words won't come. They lament the death of their gift by drinking until they're either as jittery as hyperactive children on sugar benders or until they slur their words and collapse in a heap - cheap whiskey lingering in the air like rancid perfume.
4) The fact that when it comes down to it, writers are essentially assholes. The worst being the Public Writer. Real writers hate this guy. You know the type -- he sets himself up at Starbucks, laptop and iPod in tow, pretending to be an artsy type when in actuality, he's just a hapless prick who spends more time leering at the cute barista than he does actually writing.
These traits aside, I started thinking about what it means to be a writer. Anyone could be an insecure asshole. Anyone would be egomaniacal and self-serving. But, what defines a writer?Publication? The constant fluttering of fingers over keys? The ability to craft a thicker, juicier sentence than one's peer? The almost orgasmic glee that comes with the organic usage of polysyllabic words?
It's been two years since I had anything published and these days, my fluttering fingers craft more emails than anything else.
This drought lead to a bit of a personal crisis for me. Could I really even consider myself a writer anymore? Am I a neverwas hasbeen? Is this the bit where I start drinking?
I've never written for glory (because let's face it, it's not like I was writing for Rolling Stone, The Guardian or The Times) and neither did I write for money. I wrote for myself. Because I could. Because I was good at it. Because it was the one thing that made sense in a world filled with uncertainty.
For a while, everything I scribbled seemed like effete rubbish. It was soulless and devoid of intellect.....like a Fox News anchor minus that creepy plastic sheen they all seem to have. Lethargy and the daily grind won out over inspiration and I just stopped.
And I hated that. For me, not writing is arrhythmic -- not life-threatening, not devastating, but annoying. I feel uncomfortable in my own skin and impatiently huff until it passes and I can be me again.
My heartbeat regulated itself and I've started writing again. Nothing epic, but I have a good feeling about this. I hope it lasts.
And on that note -- what makes you feel like you? Your ability to talk politics/religion/money without inciting a riot? Your ability to make anyone laugh? Your athletic skills? Have you ever had this ability wane? What happened when it did?
Something to think about...
1 comments on "On Writing"
I don't know what makes people writers either, but I know that whenever I have the pleasure of writing something that is for public consumption and my peers read it they say "that's why you're a writer." And while that may be true for them, maybe I'm really just a good BSer. I know when I can't crank out the meaningful poetry or even blog posts that I feel really confident about, it becomes a frustration and daunting task trying to gain whatever it was I had back.
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