Monday, January 4, 2010


I keep trying to fancy myself as a writer. I've never been published. Haven't written anything "with a purpose" since college. I have a blog. So does 3/4 of the American population. I just try to pat myself on the back, thinking mine's "different" or "not just a diary" or "has more to offer".

Now, I've promised one of my best friends I would stop beating the shit out of myself on here, so I shan't delve too far into the territory of self-deprecation. That's because he's right, art's a matter of opinion, so if this claptrap (kidding, C!) is enjoyed by anyone, then it's worthwhile.

But, if drawing cake from it or not, I am a writer, why must I feel the need to use the Paul Westerbergs, Nick Hornbys, and Greg Giraldos to speak for me?
Do I not feel qualified to speak for myself? After all, who knows more about me than me? Do I think I'm hip that I can use these maestros of artful linguistic flair to fill a spot in a conversation?

Or is it identification? It's nice to have corroboration and empathy for the way you think or feel, and if someone does it poetically, it's all the more impressive.

I don't confront well, I, despite being a green belt in Tae Kwon Do, avoid violence at all costs, and find myself frustrated in arguments, thusly seeming to lower my intelligence bank account. It's not due to lack of funds, but more my cerebral struggle to have easier access to it under heightened circumstances.

So, because of that, during great moments of duress, be it anger, melancholy, depression, outright betrayal aftermath, what have you, my ability to tap into my muse becomes static-ridden. Until I turn to pharmaceuticals, then the mudslide stops, it all quiets, and I can begin the flow.

Unfortunately, this option, though convenient in those evenings when I'm writing and creating, is not available when working, driving, or carrying out my day to day.

Helpless and weak becomes my feeling, my mode.

So, to quote Tom Perotta: "Dave didn't answer. He just sat there, staring at the nutritional information on the side panel of a box of Cheerios, marveling at his own cowardice."

That about sums it up.

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