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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