The Title Post (Like Venom)

In the past ten years or so, I don’t think I’ve ever been asked “Why do you write?” (Now, “Why aren’t you writing anymore?” that’s a different story entirely) Not back in the day when I wrote emo-tastic love poems for my girlfriend, not through five years of college, and not in the lean writing times afterwards. However, I’ve asked myself that question plenty of times.

I’m no so sure I’ve wanted to answer that question. Perhaps if people knew the method behind the madness, it would ruin the little bit of mystique I have left. Maybe I never really knew the answer. Maybe I’m afraid of it. But the time has come once again to try and write – I’m only $20K in the hole, why not start again now? – And I think the best way to get to the bottom of this quandary is to figure out the reason I chose this path in my life to begin with.

So I’ve thought for a little bit – minutes, really – and as the time spent thinking would indicate, it’s not all that complicated. The answer is a two-pronged approach. Nothing more, nothing less. Part of me wishes that I had a writer’s mentality, (maybe I do and just don’t realize it) that I had a real passion for writing and that there are stories that just need to be told. I’m not so sure I believe that. But I have my reasons for writing, and for lack of better words, here they are.

I don’t know how - and mostly lack the desire to – talk to people.

I alluded to writing poems for a girlfriend way back when. She was my first, and being as such I didn’t want to screw things up because, being sixteen I thought 1) what happens next? and 2) Man, I’m really horny. Please don’t leave me! So what did I do? I screwed it up.

We had one of those talks. She told me it was hard to have a relationship with someone who couldn’t make eye contact with her, and furthermore someone who didn’t seem to want to talk with her. I nodded my head and left soon thereafter with nary a kiss goodbye, walked home, and locked myself in my bedroom. With my new blacklight turned on, and The Smashing Pumpkins blaring in my headphones, I wrote what I called a song (because “poetry” sounded so faggy) titled “The Girl.” Thus started my writing “career.”

What this says about me is less that I have a flair for writing and more that I had no intention to hold a meaningful conversation with her. This holds pretty true to this day. Everything I’ve ever written to this very day represents something I’ve felt or wanted to say to someone, but never had the sack to.

To paraphrase Henry Rollins, “Words lie when they come out of my mouth.” This isn’t to say that I’m a liar; it’s to say that when I speak, what comes out is rarely what I want to convey. I can feel some of you saying “Hey, ever think of thinking before you speak, numbnuts?” Yeah, I have. It makes things worse, I overthink things, and then I end up stumbling and stumbling over my words and sounding like an all-around jackass. But when I sit down and write, my words are like venom. Maybe they’re not literally deadly, but impacting nonetheless. Instead of editing on the fly like with speech, I can take my time and gather my thoughts. I have an unlimited backspace key; I can sculpt and prune my thoughts until they’re just right.

I’ve struggled with the not talking thing my whole life. Part of me sees it as completely not normal; my other half sees it as something not to bother with. Writing is my stopgap, my way to combat both thoughts and to come to some sort of compromise. You can know what I’m thinking, but I can do it without moving my mouth.

Catharsis

Newsflash: I haven’t had the worst life ever. That may come as a surprise to anyone who’s read my writing or anyone who’s known me for more than a year. Hell, after going over my writing recently, I thought to myself “Wow, I can make anything sound like a bummer.” I may convey that to many people with my demeanor, but in the deepest reaches of myself, I know that not to be true. I mean, I’ve been intimate with people with a much worse life than me.

That would never stop me from expunging a little angst and hatred every now and then, however. And I’d be the first to admit that it makes me feel goddamn good after doing so.

Believe you me, there is nothing better than looking at an empty bottle of whiskey, a full ashtray of cigarette butts, and then finally a finished piece of writing. All the sweat, booze, and nicotine that goes into my writing is worth it because of that feeling of not just a job well done, but of the feelings themselves finally being released.

Every girl that’s ever wronged me (more likely every girl I’ve wronged), every knock-down drag-out fight I’ve ever had with my father, every half-baked opinion I’ve ever had would be bottled up inside me if I hadn’t discovered the power of the written word.

I would argue that the catharsis of writing is better than an orgasm, if only because it lasts longer. I can go back in time and relive something so insular that came to be a victory on the outside.

* * * *

I will never claim to be well read, but I will quote someone more well-known then Henry Rollins: “And so it goes.” Things happen, life goes on. I write so that my life can do so.

(If I got the context or the meaning of that quote wrong, I read Slaughterhouse-Five when I was 17… friggin’ sue me.)