Wednesday, November 26, 2014

November 26, 2014

November 26, 2014

“A writer never takes a vacation.  For a writer life consists of either writing or thinking about writing.” Which makes me a bit of a bore.  I know I should take an interest in other people’s lives or at the very least, pretend that I’m interested in their lives.  The truth is I find my world absolutely fascinating, because … well, me.   My work is basically focusing on the one thing that I know, or I “think” I know.   Surely there is not anyone out there in the world, who could write a full bodied biography on yours truly.  Therefore it is my responsibility to write, and to write what I know of - which again, is basically, me.

My entire life before I started writing, was to please others.  As the boyfriend I had to tell the girlfriend that she’s the one, and when I worked for my various bosses, I told them that they were the one, and I had to consistently bite my lips so I won’t tell them my true desire.   The only time where I felt at home, was when I read a book.   Reading text on a page is probably the most satisfying series of moments in one’s life.  The relationship is pure.  The writer and the reader.  Eventually as a reader, I decided to promote myself as a writer.  Now, for the past three or four years I read nothing but my own writings.

I have two books out now.  I read them many times.  I try to imagine myself as a reader, who doesn’t know me.   Would I still like the books?  Surprisingly I do!   “I’m almost never serious, and I’m always too serious.  Too deep, too shallow.  Too sensitive, too cold hearted. I’m like a collection of paradoxes.” Which I think makes me unique in today’s world.  Everyone is so black and white.  Truth or lies.  Left or Right.  Soldier or terrorist.   Everyone has a role and they play that role as if it was a vehicle going down a straight highway from point A to point B. As for myself, I like to explore the mystery and the paradoxes that are truly me.  Even though I have been thinking about myself for numerous years, there are still things I don ’t understand.

I often feel that language alone does not describe my world.  My basic struggle every day is to provide a description of my condition, but I often feel limited by my knowledge or use of language.  “Without language, thought is a vague, uncharted nebula.” When I walk down Waverly Drive, I think of what is it about the street that makes it so unique.  The only thing I can think of is that it is because I’m walking down this specific street.  Me being at a location makes it significant.  Without the “me, ” then it is just a street or location.  “I’ve always been suspicious of collective truths.” The only process I can truly trust, is what I see, and then there’s the art of writing down what you see - but can one ever do that?  “Sometimes I lie awake at night and I ask, “Is life a multiple choice test or is it a true or false test?… Then a voice comes to me out of the dark and says, ‘we hate to tell you this but life is a thousand word essay.’”
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