Being a Writer is the Worst

Here is an example of what happens every time I sit down to write:

I type:

To be read aloud in a boisterous British accent:

I did not start out reading this aloud, but something inside me prompted me to investigate the merit of doing so. I felt that the author’s intent might have been lost if I did not heed to the rules of the piece, therefore I now find myself speaking at the top of my voice, turning words on a page into a performance. I feel a trifle self-conscious, but also amused and pleasant in a way. My British accent could use a bit of work, but nevertheless, I endure. It’s not my fault, I did not know that I would be reading these words when I started this essay. I had no time to prepare. I am a willing participant in this happening, and while I have found it amusing thus far, I am beginning to feel as though having these words put in my mouth is a bit invasive, if not peculiarly uncomfortable. Did I pronounce ‘peculiarly’ properly? Who am I asking? The author? An audience that has had no choice but to pay attention while I make a fool of myself for the sake of an artistic and sociological endeavor that has yet to prove the worth of its occupation of my time. Goodness, that was a long sentence, I nearly ran out of breath because, again, I was not rehearsed or prepared.

You can stop reading aloud now. Let your eyes become sad and read these words thoughtfully.

Literature is strange. Our connection to it even stranger. It occurs to me that, when I read, I am usually looking at a detailed and realistic world, if the author has any gumption at all, created solely for my observation and then filtered through the mind of the author and made safe by the barrier of the page. For example, I can take a guided tour of a horrific battle without ever feeling as if I am in danger. I like this, but it does leave me wondering if there is a line that literature, the written word, provides that allows me to be passive, allows me to indulge in fears that should otherwise be confronted.

So, as I write, dear reader, I think of you. Is there something more that I could be doing to get us out of this comfort zone? Some new life that I could breathe into black letters on a white background? You are an element in this story that sometimes I am not very considerate of. What do you like? What are you looking for? Who are you? I know everything about myself, and in trying to communicate that to you, I make up characters, use metaphor, choose this word over that in an effort to paint a picture that provides some service to those who read it after it has been abandoned by me. But what is the purpose if I have no preconception of the person who is reading? If this is ineffective because I have no concept of other people, then what is the purpose of draining it from my head? Exorcism? To be sure.

Sometimes, and I would even argue that these are my best times, I write only because I have to; because if I did not write, I would serve no other purpose. But, as I’ve said, I do wonder about the usefulness of this page beyond its immediate creation. I think about all the pages that have been written throughout human existence, and I feel overwhelmed by a sense of insignificance. Why should this page be read by anyone, especially when there are perfectly good pages of Freud, or Dante, or even the Bible to be read? (At least the 'page' is digital. No living thing had to be sacrificed for these silly words to live. That would really make me feel bad. Oh crap, I didn't think about electricity or the money we spend on internet connection... Are these things intangibles? Even if they are, should they be factored in?)

Yikes. I suppose I should forget about this, because if I pursue this line of thinking, I eventually arrive at the thought that if this page is not important enough to be read, then it probably isn’t important enough to be written. And if this page isn’t important enough to be written, then what, dear reader, should I otherwise do with my time? If you are reading this now, what should you have been doing with your own time that would have been a better use? Then I think, holy crap, what if the answer is ‘nothing’? It’s true, in one sense, to be sure. There is nothing that we could have been doing instead of this, because this is what we were doing. But I wonder if there is also nothing that is more significant than this that could have been done, even hypothetically. We could have just as easily been looking at pictures of cats. The last thing that I want to do is waste anyone’s time, especially my own. But what if I am? If that’s the case, if I can’t even figure out a better thing to do with my time than waste it, why even continue to live? Beyond that, why does consciousness or energy exist at all?

Read aloud again (choose an accent that is to your liking. I don’t know about you, but it seems to me that it was pretty presumptuous of me to go straight for British. What if you ARE British, that wouldn't have been any fun for you at all. Reading things within parentheses is optional):

Look, we have to prioritize, both myself and the author of this essay, which I realize are sharing very many aspects of reality right in this moment. At the time of inception, the writer and the reader are (were), indeed, the same person. Now, as I read this, especially out loud (and when I do it, it’s still British for some reason, if you’re reading this in a different accent, I apologize, especially if you’ve kept reading even inside the parentheses. If you’re reading out loud in a non-British accent, then it probably sounds weird to say that you’re doing it in British. But that’s also cool. That means that the piece is growing beyond the input of only one person.  If you haven’t kept reading, I apologize to anyone who started listening to you when you started this paragraph out loud. Because now you’re just reading this in your head, and they are sitting there waiting for you to finish your, or more accurately, my, thought. Please apologize to them when you are done here. I really am sorry, but I am also intrigued by the idea that this essay has now been set loose from my own mind, it has affected YOUR life, and now it could possibly be integrating itself into yet another person’s day. That is strange), and especially if the reader is not the original writer anymore, we have to wonder if this is worth it. (After thinking about it for a moment, especially the part in the parentheses, even if you didn't read that part ((or this)) out loud, say this part with conviction:) I think that it is! (If you said that part in the parentheses out loud, I hope that you said it with conviction too. But now I kind of want you to be reading this part all monotone, ((even if you start right here)) like the whole thing that you said out loud before was just a performance. Of course, all of this hinges on the thought that you were reading the stuff in parentheses out loud too. Or that you were reading ANY of this out loud to begin with.)

And with that (oh, you can stop reading out loud now) we have found our solution. An action is made relevant by motivation. If we believe that what we are doing, or saying, in whatever time of day, in whatever format, in whatever accent, is worthwhile, then it is. The belief, the confidence, is the important part. If we do not feel confident in what we are doing, then a change is needed. However, since we now feel as though this whole endeavor was a worthwhile use of time, it was. Even if we feel this way largely in retrospect. I get the feeling that no one ever feels as though the things that they are doing are the be-all-end-all most important things that could be done. Had Freud or Dante or Shakespeare any idea how revered and coveted the breadth of their genius would be perceived while they were creating their great works? Probably not. I know that I live my life in the pursuit of new, innovative, and original ideas, and much of the time I feel as if I fall short of this pursuit. Not that I would compare myself to any of those guys (even though I just did).

Sometimes I blame the times in which I live. It seems as though there is nothing that hasn’t been said, no idea that has not already been explored, no shadow of creativity that has not been previously illuminated. I don't even have to leave the apartment to see this fact (thanks internet!), but I do it anyway. Some days I'll think, 'Hellfire, Scott, you made some pretty rootin' tootin' stuff today' (I don't actually think like that, I dressed it up for entertainment value). Then I'll see or read something that is pretty much just what I did, that was done, like, ten years ago, and is better than what I did.

Perhaps I am just not thinking big enough. And perhaps I am being too hard on myself. Shakespeare is largely unoriginal. That’s not the point. It’s about how he made these universal stories new and put the ol’ Shakespeare spin on them that made them last. In doing that, he did make up a whole bunch of words and phrases and now we, as a culture, defer to him when we think about a lot of these characters and situations that were around before he ever set quill to parchment.

So, that’s what we’ve got to do today: Don't sweat it, go out, be as aware of the wide world around us as we possibly can be, take it all in, process it, share it, be a part of it, and whittle it back down to our own experience, put that spin on it, know that our contribution (whatever it may be) is worth the effort, and spit it back out into the world for others!

Yeah! Now I feel great! Now that I’ve gotten all of this out, I can go and write more conventional things. I can create stuff that is more fit for consumption. Maybe it’s not the most original thing in the world, but at least it might be something that someone won’t question their own commitment to. Something that I won’t have to force people to participate in by having them read it aloud in funny accents. Yeah. I’m ready. Let’s do this.

*Immediately decides that these pages are fine for the day and takes a nap.