This day I want to end my writing. I want to take every manuscript I have ever written, feed them through a shredder, get drunk, and throw the strips around as if they were confetti. I care nothing for anything kind anyone can say about anything I have ever written. I am in that strange spot known to writers where all faith is lost and all the projects seem to waste precious seconds I could have spent living. How long have I labored over unborn worlds only to abort them? During all those hours I could have been making this world better instead of wallowing in the bullshit that is the solipsistic rants of an upper-middle class white Anglo-Saxon protestant doctor’s son. My perspective is so crowded with literate men that we jostle each other as in an over-packed subway car. I smell the armpits of my ilk and it disgusts me. I disgust me. I want no attention. I write this because I haven’t written in a few days and feel it is right to keep up with what I am doing. Some part of me trying to shout over the blaring negative talk on a PA from hell, some part is saying, you do your best writing when you are angry, Dylan, and this piece will be really good. Fuck that. If I could find a way to give up writing I would have done it by now. I write and write so often because it is my heartbeat, it is my breath, it is my brainwave and without it everything would cease. I exist only because I feel the need to bring what doesn’t exist into existence. Write or die. Those are the choices. And I will not die. I refuse. Suicide is the writer’s most obvious cliché. So I will vomit alphabet soup and arrange its letters wishing there were more vowels in the mix so I could make more words from the limited resources. Don’t worry about me. Worry about me when I don’t write words like this, or any at all. I am writing about writing, which is the writer’s second most obvious cliché. Still, it wins over the alternative. After all, this exists as much as any of the other collages of refuse that will be beacons of pride another time under a different mood and the same eyes. This is far from the end.
Writer’s Brock – “This is far from the end.”
I could have been making this world better instead of wallowing in the bullshit that is the solipsistic rants of an upper-middle class white Anglo-Saxon protestant doctor’s son.