Even though I know, because of all my sentimentality and reminiscing, that my facebook and twitter and blog may be the only things that any one ever reads because writers hardly ever receive the gift of an audience. Even though I know that because of my twitter and facebook and blog, people will know the sound of my voice and the mystery of the narrator will have long been exposed. Even though I know that by the time I write anything worth reading, no one will eagerly flip dry, stale pages to try to get to the good parts…they’ll half-heartedly swipe their e-books. And we write and reflect, rinse and repeat, until our delusions subside and we, for an instant, believe that the banalities of life might actually be….boring.Īnd yet I still long only to write.
#AND STILL I WRISE WRITER FULL#
We merely highlight what it feels like to feel full after a heavy meal, or praise the nuances of washing clothes…or bring attention the confusion of a kiss. Writers pull up the rear, exalting the ordinary and admiring their own reflections. The thinkers follow them, coaxing the mind into their multitude of boxes and traps. The philosophers are still of the highest order, tackling questions of life, love, and spirit and daring to peek out on the horizons of the universe. Without its cloak, writing is naked, wrinkly, writhing. The light is on, and what readers and writers alike get to see is often not poetic. The magic of the lonely, secluded, eccentric writer drowning in thoughts and stories, is no more. What does it even mean to be a “writer” now? Everyone writes. Writing was one of the few life choices that, with enough ink and good fortune, allowed you to outrun time.īut to be a writer now is hilarious…in the cute, tragic sense. It was quaint and romantic and evoked a royalty, without the sterility of aristocracy. I’ve made up my mind that this nostalgic era was the Golden Age of writing, when not everyone was able, or learned enough, to write, so writing was left to the lucky few who hadn’t been corralled by polio, or World War 1…or Jim Crow. I’m all of 23 years and am growing sentimental for some ambiguous past era of great writing. I decided that writing, like the pages of a good book, is worn and fading. I’d made a joke, and because I have a weakness for wit, I had to figure out what made this one so clever. It was one of those staccato moments where the laughter erupts and rings, and then lingers, and the concussive silence forces you to realize the joke’s on you, but by that time the moment’s moved on without you and you have to slip a smile on and swallow the spoonfuls of corrective words bubbling on your tongue.Īfter I’d taken my medicine, the laughter continued to clang, bong, bang…ring. I didn’t think I was saying anything all that funny. Today, someone laughed when I said(maybe too confidently?) that I was a writer.
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