23/05/2022
An eccentric German café owner asked me in an interview, “why don’t you just stick with the writing to pay the bills”. Would anyone pay for the untrained ramblings of an unknown author. How does someone become someone worth reading? I pretend to write for myself, for the intrinsic value of the plotting of my being into words. In reality, I know my true hope is that I could be paid for it. That I could define myself as “writer” and not feel like I’m playing at the role. Is it to be published to become a writer, to have public readings in bookshops?
I have long been an artist without a medium if I could be so bold as to use that word. Although I truly believe the creation of art is a facet of humanity and that it is impossible to be a human without creating something of varying resolution during a lifetime, to name myself artist feels like a trophy I did not win. A month ago, I made the decision to write and post no matter the outcome. The outcome, meagre, but I have become proud of what I’ve written. So far, I’ve found writing has allowed me a more refined introspection that has made me more comfortable in endeavours elsewhere. I have rooted myself in the language and bled the radiator of my mind.
This past week I declared to that German that writing is my “dream”, or at least that I am discovering that it is. The kind of declaration you don’t realise you’ll make until someone of perceived authority makes you. The kind that you know in your heart of hearts will have deep introspective ramifications. This contract of creativity made between me and this man I most likely will never meet again will only weigh on my mind. No one else will care about the outcome of this.
A month deep has left me craving more than my ability allows. I find making anything to be a deeply scary activity. Any assertation to my existence feels entirely too impolite. To slink into the dark corners of life is all too easy.