Episode 24
A wank in the darkness: on existing on the fringes of creativity
It’s been awhile, dear reader.
Despite my absence in social media channels of late, I’ve been keeping on keeping on in the real world, somehow existing on the fringes of creativity. This is out of necessity as to live a rewarding life requires some sacrifice in terms of time, effort, and energy expenditure. In other words, the shovelling of shit must be undertaken if one expects a tidy stable.
This is not unique to me. Despite my rampant narcissism I’m aware that millions upon millions of people drag their sorry asses into jobs they hate or tolerate for the sake of the paycheque, and this seriously bums me out. If this is indeed my first step in the direction of empathy, as those close to me have suggested, then let’s hope the steps after that are not similarly perilous. For what is empathy, but a distraction from the rich inner life of one’s own construction?
This notion of ‘being a writer’ has, frankly, got me all bugaboo. I’ve got a short story collection coming out this month and I’m so detached from any sort of writerly identity. I haven’t written anything of value in more than six months. No poems. No stories. No unhinged manifestos. Progress on the third draft rewrite of my shitty-ass novel has stalled out. This should be a milestone moment, and I’m fumbling it big-time. I have no bookings to appear on any niche literary podcasts to discuss the merits of my forthcoming collection. There is no social media buzz surrounding my forthcoming collection. There is an increasing likelihood that I will find myself stuck for the foreseeable future with a stack of unread and unsold copies of my forthcoming collection.
What happens then, when my writing takes on the character of a wank in someone else’s darkness?