It's customary to start any project with some sort of opening piece: a prologue, a preface, or some other sort of nonsense that preludes a story. So I'm indulging that incessant habit. Then again, the whole 'introduction' tradition is reliant upon a unilateral, coherent story. Which, I have to admit, this is anything but. Frankly... I'm not sure what this is. I suppose one could call it a vague collection of thoughts, reflecting upon the futility of the artistic existence in this day and age. Or, it could be a narcissistic indulgence into my own vanity, a chronological epitaph to a still-running story. Honestly it's probably nothing more than an eclectic collage of scattered thoughts and misanthropic misadventures justified by what people consider a form of art.
The truth is, I call myself a writer. But despite the romanticism associated with said "career"... this is not a good thing. In essence, I am a junkie. I am literally hooked on words, and I cannot seem to function without this addiction. To those of the idiosyncratic and socially-awkward existence, words are the alpha narcotic: they create the manic, insatiable rush of cocaine, the introspective ingenuity of opium, the bizarre confusion of peyote, the lucidity of cannabis, and the utter confusion and unpredictability of LSD. See? How could I not cling to such a sensation. I mean hell... anyone of the crazy disposition would quickly fall prey to the siren song of the written word. Think about it: the ability to manipulate the world through a fictitious medium... what's not to love?
But the truth is, writing is not some noble art nor some ideal artistic expression. True writing, in the tradition of Hemingway, Kerouac, and Fitzgerald, is an exercise in pain, sacrifice, doubt, and discontent. It leads to the darkest corners of the soul, places that can only be escaped through excess and neglect. Alcoholism and denial: the predominant pennants and traits that fall upon the modern American writer. Sure, you can take the route of the charlatan and hack (cough, cough, Jodi Picoult, cough cough), but that is not writing. That is regurgitating the same, banal story that appeals to the lowest of the lowest IQ, yet changing names and thus duping the uneducated of the world.
So by now, you're probably wondering what you're supposed to take from this. But hell... if you're still reading this, you should have abandoned expectation long ago. Because this is not rants and raves. This is a continuous monologue, a cautionary tale, about trying to spin words as a profession. (And yes, I'm about to get completely cliche and douchy, but...) This is, in essence, a story about drowning in words...
-s/j.@
The truth is, I call myself a writer. But despite the romanticism associated with said "career"... this is not a good thing. In essence, I am a junkie. I am literally hooked on words, and I cannot seem to function without this addiction. To those of the idiosyncratic and socially-awkward existence, words are the alpha narcotic: they create the manic, insatiable rush of cocaine, the introspective ingenuity of opium, the bizarre confusion of peyote, the lucidity of cannabis, and the utter confusion and unpredictability of LSD. See? How could I not cling to such a sensation. I mean hell... anyone of the crazy disposition would quickly fall prey to the siren song of the written word. Think about it: the ability to manipulate the world through a fictitious medium... what's not to love?
But the truth is, writing is not some noble art nor some ideal artistic expression. True writing, in the tradition of Hemingway, Kerouac, and Fitzgerald, is an exercise in pain, sacrifice, doubt, and discontent. It leads to the darkest corners of the soul, places that can only be escaped through excess and neglect. Alcoholism and denial: the predominant pennants and traits that fall upon the modern American writer. Sure, you can take the route of the charlatan and hack (cough, cough, Jodi Picoult, cough cough), but that is not writing. That is regurgitating the same, banal story that appeals to the lowest of the lowest IQ, yet changing names and thus duping the uneducated of the world.
So by now, you're probably wondering what you're supposed to take from this. But hell... if you're still reading this, you should have abandoned expectation long ago. Because this is not rants and raves. This is a continuous monologue, a cautionary tale, about trying to spin words as a profession. (And yes, I'm about to get completely cliche and douchy, but...) This is, in essence, a story about drowning in words...
-s/j.@
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