I'm the last one to deny I have a dream, and that the dream is to be recognized for my writing. To for once be able to look at something proudly and say, 'I wrote that' and 'I made that', and be renowned. Too many times lately I've thought I am writing for nobody's eyes. I'm writing for nothing but my own eyes, and who cares? Really? No one cares about anyone's eyes but their own. We are so quick to say we are misunderstood but none of us ever tried to understand others.
I will always be driven to write. Maybe one day I'll be rewarded for it. But more often than not, I ask myself why this should happen. Why I keep clinging on to the hope that someday, someone will pick up a book of mine, read it and have their world changed, have their world revealed. There are no little golden elfs to hand out riches and fame to the struggling artists. A struggle is all that it is, and still we can't keep ourselves from doing it, we can't keep ourselves from putting pen to paper. Is it naive or brave? Is it stupid or ambitious?
I've always said I write in order to deal with hardships in life, and it is true. I write to distance myself from thoughts about mortality and monsters under the bed. I write to get it out of my head and onto paper where it's safe. But what do you do when the writing isn't enough? What do you do, when all you do is write, all you do is pour and pour from yourself, and still you never dry up?
I feel so lost, and confused. The more I write, the more my angst shows through. The more it seems like a game and a folly. What madness is this?
Why do I drive myself toward madness?
POET IN THE JAR
sounds a lot like my recent thoughts, but you already know that.
ReplyDelete"But what do you do when the writing isn't enough?"
I really don't know the answer. but I guess you start living like you write once you gain enough courage. I mean, living like you would like to, like you dream to. because I write about the life I would like to have. it's sure angsty, but at least they're loved or have been loved. they've had things I haven't, even if they lose them in some point. and once I'm brave enough to stop dreaming... well. that day won't come soon.
but I guess we'll never be dry from angst, from urge to write. because paper is safe. words last, they hold meanings we're too weak to hold on to by ourselves. and later those words prove that something was different, they prove we felt and did something even when it feels like our lives have been wasted on useless pages.
and if a writer like you won't be recognized, then what hope do the rest of us have?
but do we have the choice to stop? even if we're just getting deeper into this madness?
I think we don't have any choice - like I already told you. But the discussion we had got me thinking. And sometimes it just feels so slow that you have to wonder, why am I doing this?
ReplyDeleteDon't be so quick to put me on a piedestal, I am no more a special writer than anyone else. I guess what is left for us to share our struggles and our hopes to one day be recognized.
I write not for what I wish was but mostly for what already is or already has been... I am not so fast to leave my past behind.
yeah it is slow. I can't tell you to be patient because well, as you know I'm not very patient myself.
ReplyDeleteIt's alright. We can be impatient together.
ReplyDeletethat's awesome.
ReplyDelete