It’s Christmas in July again! One of the unique things this year is the addition of user submitted prompts. For our first week’s prompt, we were each tasked with a short post about why we write.
If you’ve followed me for any significant amount of time (why?) it has most likely occurred to you that I don’t really write any more, or at least I don’t do so publicly. The few pieces I have produced over the last year have been short screenplays for school assignments, most of which haven’t been filmed and all of which are terrible.
It seems silly to me to give my motivation for an activity I do neither consistently nor well.
HOWEVER. I have an obligation to fulfill the prompt.
If you’ve followed me since my high school days (really, why?) you might recall I authored a short piece on why I write. This was way back when I was still challenging myself to post an article to this website every week, back when I had motivation, abet a motivation born of sexual angst and insipid narcissism. Instead of talking about why I write, I’d like to cover why I don’t write here anymore, and why most of the content here rightly deserves obscurity and vilification.
Here we go.
God, what a title. This metaphor is rated E for Edgy Kids Only.
In a lot of ways, this is a vanity post.
It was nothing other than a vanity post.
Having been recently been put on Freshly Pressed, I feel like there are some people out there who might be interested in why I write and the attitude I take towards writing in general.
Being Freshly Pressed is the only thing I have ever won besides small toys distributed at the dentist’s office to children who don’t shit themselves. It’s even more pathetic considering I was Freshly Pressed for an unsolicited review praising The Godfather, a concept about as artistically groundbreaking as a gelatin shovel.
I also feel like I should put out something before all the new attention from my fleeting notoriety goes completely down the crapper.
Hey, new fans. I know you were probably looking forward more needless praise of classic films, but I’m sure you’ll be sufficiently entertained by a pretentious diatribe about how white and tortured I am.
Everything up to this point was included as a foreword to the actual piece. The actual essay begins now.
Here I am. This is me. I am here. And I am alone. Inside my head I have an island all to myself, and I’m drawn slowly across time and through the void of existence.
Any instance or suggestion of the word ‘alone’ in this piece is synonymous with ‘unlaid’, and ‘island’ with ‘virgin’. When I say ‘void of existence’ what I really mean is an existence devoid of women. My lack of a sex life had cosmic, borderline religious implications.
The trees here are green and the water is black.
The water is black, like my soul. So fucking black that you can’t see the bottom, because my despair is bottomless. And black.
Zoom out, and I’m in the library and my eyeballs hurt.
I promise you I very infrequently wrote in libraries. Libraries make me feel under-read and ignorant. If I ever claimed to love literature as a teenager it was a lie to feign competence and intelligence.
There is the hum of spinning hard drives and people coughing, one after the next. The more and more I sit here, the noisier my head gets.
The ‘noise’ was a chorus of voices yelling ‘DON’T FUCKING USE PASSIVE VOICE YOU INANE CUNT’.
I can feel my skull buzzing under my skin. It’s burning me, trying to command me to write anything, for my scraggly, spidery fingers to make a sentence, any sentence.
Meanwhile my scraggly, spidery, long, gross, adjective, adjective, nasty fingers plead to be severed from my hands so they don’t bear the sin of contributing to another iteration of this garbage.
They disobey, but not out of spite. I just can’t do it this time for some reason. I’m stuck. The meaning of words has left me and they’ve fractured into nonsense sounds and each letter floats off in abject non-sequitur smog.
I’m left with the sound of pigs being slaughtered filling the caverns between my grey matter. I try to write again. If I don’t I have nothing.
I had and continue to have a support group of loving family and friends whom I am dedicated to spiting with every word I write.
I became a writer by accident, and now I can’t stop. I just wanted to make jokes for christsakes, and now it’s all I have left. Now I’ve got writing, and a jail cell made of ink.
I’m tortured because I’m a writer because I’m tortured because I’m a writer because I’m tortured because I’m a writer because I’m tortured because I’m a writer because I’m tortured because I’m a writer because I’m tortured because I’m a writer because I’m tortured because I’m a writer because I’m tortured because I’m a writer because I’m tortured because I’m a writer because I’m tortured because I’m a writer because I’m tortured because I’m a writer because I’m tortured because I’m a writer because I’m tortured because I’m a writer because I’m tortured because I’m a writer because I’m tortured because I’m a writer because I’m tortured because I’m a writer because ect.
When you remove humanity from a human being, you get bones.
Get it? Like I’ve been flayed. Like I’ve been TORTURED.
True, intimate (read: intimate), personal human connection is has become foreign to me over the years, and I’ve been left with an empty vessel, and it’s collisions with the walls of reality. It’s either going to destroy, create, or do neither, and it vanishes entirely into the folds of its own weakness.
When I say that human connection had become foreign over the years I neglect to mention that personal human connection was felt pretty scarce my whole life. This is only because I was too obsessed with my own misery to notice when people made a genuine effort in my direction.
I decided to create because I wanted to keep existing. I write as a means of survival. If I stop, I’m fucked. I vanish. I am vapor in a world of flesh.
One of the things that depressed me the most in high school was thinking that being a writer was the only thing that qualified me to continue to live. In this case I almost feel grateful that I was deluded enough to believe I was a prodigy.
There are complete people all around me, who can love and laugh fully and have their lives bond together with mutual ideas and sentiment and every time I talk to them I have to grab their shoulders and scream just to deliver a basic concept.
Wake up sheeple! Being happy and being stupid is the same thing. Too bad you can’t be a shallow cynic like me and make big boy art with the brainiacs.
They exchange feelings and converse and their perceptions mingle and their realities become intertwined, and float off as a binary system to form more and more networks of human nicety, becoming star systems and whole galaxies they leave behind for me to see from a dark and distant shore covered in seagull shit.
Here I am. I am here. I am alone.
But I am the God of this tiny world. With just a keyboard and Microsoft Word, creation is my bitch.
I remember really taking the time to craft that subtle transition from indulgent self-pity into overt megalomania.
I can raise mountains and make them weep rivers of magma. I can choreograph dance of the four winds and the lightning that splits the sky and marks the rock in my angsty teenage bullshit. I manufacture illusions and puppets as characters whose stories are of my design.
I’m not the least bit self aware, but I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if you think I won’t pretend to be.
I pretend I’m not alone.
This is a lie too. I love being alone. It’s the only time I can suck my own dick.
These creatures bend to my will and follow the paths I have programed for them. Their little automaton hearts beat because I made it so.
I’m only a writer because I’m too dense to write actual computer programs.
They wiz and buzz through their own tragedies and horrors which I have engineered for them and made in the image of my own horrors.
That’s why all my characters up until this point were either unhappy children or cranky sexless man-children.
I reach inside my black heart and sicko head and power their existences with the very darkness that binds the stone beneath the sea together.
‘Black Heart and Sicko Head’ is stupid for the same reason calling myself ‘the madman’ is stupid. Do yourself a disservice and Google ‘my twisted mind tumblr’. ‘Black Heart and Sicko Head’ is also an album of field recordings of suburban bathrooms in the dead of night to be released August 2019. The implication from this excerpt is again, that the same cosmic and chemical forces that hold planets together also drive me to masturbate to things I shouldn’t.
My voice interweaves with their stories in a single frequency played across the reaches off space-time.
It’s played across one website buried away in the deepest reaches of the blogosphere, and deservedly so.
The foreign star clusters turn on their radios and listen to the music of my world, my people, and I can bind to their thoughts briefly. We can network with their realities in a false, empty sort of way, but it’s enough to get by. My creatures turn to me in worship, never knowing just how powerless I am.
Powerless, but still deserving of worship, see? I spent a lot of time paying lip service to my own worthlessness, but was never really willing to come to terms with the fact it was my only quality that made my work even vaguely interesting.
It just hurts is all. I am in the library, on my island, curled in the abyss, writing the lives of my characters in a steady flow of blood.
Whining. Also clearly plagiarizing the Order of the Phoenix.
I am a child at the keyboard again, and a knife is being drawn across my small face. The blade nears my left eye and hovers over my pupil.
Nothing says artsy like stealing the most iconic image from Un Chien Andalou and spicing it up with child abuse.
7 years later I twitch in response, and I see a death before me, tossing a meat cleaver back and forth, waiting for my hands to stop for a second so he can thwack one of my digits off and make me leak all over the carpet.
He’s one patient motherfucker.
I can say ‘motherfucker’ whenever I want. That’s just the kind of guy I am. I’m so random and edgy, you can never predict the next time I’m going to drop an f-bomb and blow everyone’s minds with my snide and grizzled action hero quips.
He’s waiting for me to get complacent or lazy. Then his void consumes everything that I am.
This essay is a whole lot worse than just being complacent or lazy. It’s a grandiloquent bitch-fest crafted for the sole purpose of tricking myself into thinking I deserve to keep writing.
I return to my work.
My, how very noble of me. That essay was so good it deserves an afterword in addition to a foreword:
This was previously submitted as my final assignment for a creative writing class. My teacher didn’t care for it very much.
He has good taste.