As an artist there are a lot of days when I get up and feel the necessity to write and don’t. Days when I should post as part of my job as a writer, but when I don’t feel it. Perhaps that is why I am here–a voice singing quietly in dark corner of the internet–instead of someplace else, someplace with more public watching, listening.
I have always debated whom I was writing for. As someone who did not like himself for most of his life, and who then could barely tolerate himself, I had ambivalent feelings about writing to please myself. These days, I like myself better. I’m happier to sing for myself, and in that sliver of joyfulness I feel like sharing is also appropriate. Turds don’t intentionally share their odor with others; stools stink of indifference.
But I care. I have picked up reasons to love life, like a child collecting shiny stones and putting them in her pocket to look at later, feeling their cool promises against her fingertips.
The job of the writer is to get up, every day and do this. To play music on the page for others, but mostly for ourselves, playing the games and spinning the stories we most want to play and hear. There were many days when I did not play. Days when I lowered the bucket down into the well and brought up only sand and emptiness and other inedible and useless things. I wish those days behind me.
These days when I do not post here it most often has meant that I don’t have anything in my bucket. The well goes through cycles of being full and empty. People who are successful at being consistent as a writer, make the best use of the time they have when the well is full and try to bank the creative work, leaving the other work, editing, revising, for days when the bucket has nothing in it.
I do not believe in serving up anything to you unless it has quality, unless I feel good about it, unless I think it represents some kind of quality. Quality is something one feels. It is–at least in part–the result of passion. I’m not here to waste anyone’s time with less.