Really, A Writer?Writers are carnal bastards that talk with their fingers. We live to tell everything. We live to expose our soft under bellies because we are all shameless exhibitionists. We are profoundly sensitive and we care too much, but, oddly, we won’t answer the phone when our best friend calls because we are sleighed in the spirit of our selfish little characters~ who are in reality our truest “best friends.”
We’re so egotistical that we think our very thoughts are newborn suggestions that the world has yet to experience. We all foolishly reckon that our ideas are unique, and that our minds are tragic playgrounds well worthy of quotation marks. In short, we think we are God and as long as our fingers are moving, we are, and this makes us drunk with happiness.
We are like a bunch of venal children all shamelessly rolling up our sleeves, showing off our big emotional muscles. We spend whole years trying to tell an elaborate lie couched within an elegant truth, and we yammer on about what a curse it is to live in our own heads.
Most of us never get anything notable published. They say to be an idiot is to keep doing the same thing with the same results, but, we keep doing the same thing and generally, we keep getting the same results, but, we are in so madly in love with ourselves, or in hate with ourselves, that there is little time for much else in our world.
I imagine writers are generally well heated lovers, we aren’t much good for anything else. After all, most of our day is spent in fantasy. We are big on “detail” work, and we are disgustingly vulgar, if we are any good at all at what we do.