Writing is an anti-death hack for me. By always having short stories, novellas, and novels in the works, I’ve tricked myself out of suicide. This might sound morbid, or goofy to some. But if I’m on the hook for a project, I put off killing myself. Rarely does a day go by I don’t think: Man, this place fucking sucks. Fuck it all. I’m out. Then I remember: oh, shit, I have projects to finish. Whelp, can’t do it today. When the projects are done, yes, then I can.
I don’t write to feel fulfilled. That never worked.
I don’t write because I think I have something terribly important to say. I’m no Buddhist monk.
I write because it’s the only path I know saving me from the grave.
So I have a ton of projects in the works. More projects than I can complete before biology makes a fool of me.
I heard it said writing is healing or that writing is good for you. I don’t know about that. I don’t feel like I’ve become a better person because of writing. I never finished a project and thought: that nourished my soul. But I has kept me from the rope. It’s given me an excuse to continue on.
Finally, it’s the last big dream I have. And I can’t let it be clubbed into dank submission. I’m reminded of this quote at the end of Blow:
So in the end, was it worth it? Jesus Christ. How irreparably changed my life has become. It's always the last day of summer and I've been left out in the cold with no door to get back in. I'll grant you I've had more than my share of poignant moments. Life passes most people by while they're making grand plans for it. Throughout my lifetime, I've left pieces of my heart here and there. And now, there's almost not enough to stay alive. But I force a smile, knowing that my ambition far exceeded my talent. There are no more white horses or pretty ladies at my door.
I once had big dreams of being a bass player in a metal band, touring the world, playing sole out stadiums. That didn’t work out. My biggest dream was to be a legitimate professional philosopher (I am, in a reduced capacity). That didn’t work out quite as I envisioned. My final big dream is to make it as a professional writer. I hold onto that hope, knowing the dream is more important than the real thing (as dreams always are). The glamor of “making it” is made a mockery when you see the man behind the curtain. When you see, as they say, how the sausage is made, the glamour is viscerally ripped from you. But right now, I burn fumes on a dream of making it. That maybe, just maybe, there’s a pot of gold at the end of some rainbow.
That’s all for now. Remember: compassion is limitless. In this world of cruelty and sadism, be the one who extends a hand. And remember, we’re all blindly stabbing in the dark, suffering our own demons. So be good to yourselves. And be good to one another.
I relate to this a lot. Even on a small scale, If I'm not writing, I feel like I'm dying. It's not something I enjoy, the same way I like to draw or build things or even read. It's more of a prerequisite, about as satisfying in the moment as breathing is, but equally as necessary. I've been too overworked lately to keep up with it, and that's probably why I feel air hungry lately.
I’ve always said that the key to everything is to always be moving (literally or figuratively). Always have something going on, you might say.