i’ve entered a real dead-zone, writing-wise. sometimes having this secret blog helps, sometimes it doesn’t. i think right now it’s not helping.

writing (as in “writing creatively,” as in spending substantial portions of your time arranging words in hopes that others will read them and fall in love with you or, at least, gnash their teeth in jealousy) is a bizarre, selfish pasttime. when i sit in front of a computer and stare at the word processing program on my monitor, i might as well be Narcissus staring at his reflection in the water — shamefully vain. sometimes i ask myself why i spend so much time thinking about writing or talking about writing or actually writing and i can’t think of any altruistic answers.

i really like doing it, is the main answer. the second answer, though, is that i’ve secretly always believed that if i write something good enough or beautiful enough, something that really gets to the heart of the matter (“the matter” being life itself, i guess), all the boys i’ve loved in the past who didn’t love me back or didn’t love me properly will suddenly realize how wrong they were. it’s not that i care about these guys anymore (most now balding, married, burdened with babies and jobs), but that, when it comes down to it, i can never quite get over my secret desire to be the Best Person in the World. everyone, past and present, must love me.

and that’s what writing essentially comes down to for me: making M.W., unrequited love circa 2001, realize that he was wrong to choose the girl with the purple hair and nose rings over me.

[freud or whoever was right. it is all about sex]

[also, is there anything more privileged that writing? having the luxury to sit around on a saturday afternoon and make up stories about men without fingers and women who stare out windows at the rain (yawn) while some people don’t have clean water to drink?]

i’ve always wished that i were a musician, because music is useful. a song’s effect is immediate, and it translates for almost everybody. stories or novels are different: a whole portion of the population either can’t or doesn’t want to read them, and those who do… well, what difference does it make? has a story ever changed my life like a song has?  can a novel helped me through dark times like an album can?

no.

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