I’m almost finished! I mean, I’m not at all. But I also am. When you start a book, you usually have a chapter in your head that needs no plotting, and your own momentum might take you through to chapter three. After that, though, you’re fucked. After that, you’re supposed to have a plot; know where the story is going; be able to write a synopsis; have a middle and an end, as well as a beginning. All the shit that real writers do, because you’re not a real writer; you’re an unemployed cunt who knows words like ‘eponymous’, and ‘phlegmatic’.
I’ve always wanted to be a writer, and I never have. People tell you that you should be a writer, because you’re good with words. Don’t listen to those people; writers aren’t good with words. Writers are good at thinking of stories that publishers like, and that idiots read.
Remember when you had your first few jobs, and the bosses were like ‘Weeeeeellll, it’s not really about X or Y, it’s about how CONFIDENT you are.’ There! That’s it; that’s the secret to life. It’s NEVER about how good you are at something, or how good the thing is that you’re selling. It’s about how confident you are. Or in your case, aren’t. The people at the top of any game are never the ones who were the best at it; they were the ones who could bullshit and bully their way there. You’ll never be one of them, so the best thing is not to bother.
Creative people are fragile, and we don’t ever appreciate their importance to society. The rest of the people on earth all seem to know their place in life; what cog they are in the mechanism of commerce and industry. A creative person never feels he or she is part of that team. Life seems to be a series of painful rejections by the members of Club Normal, and so many artistic types end up being unable to take it all any more. How many feel the need to dull their own flame by abusing alcohol or drugs? How many end up swinging from a beam in the garage? And because what? They couldn’t quite ‘fit in’ on the team at Costa Coffee? Because they didn’t have as much ‘common sense’ as someone who moves their mouth while reading headlines from The Sun? That’s a real tragedy. Not when some fucking two year old dies.
A creative person looks at a row of trees on a frosted February morning, and sees the poetry in it. He transcribes that beauty, so that people without his gift can share in it. Art is just man’s attempts at recreating the beauty that is already around us. As the people at Club Normal strive for more and more ‘progress’, the beauty of our surroundings is going to diminish, and we’re going to need people like the Tree Poem guy, or the Water Lilies Painting guy even more.
We need people to remind us of the beauty of existence, so we don’t get lost in a sea of invoices and deadlines. We need bodies to keep this whole ‘world’ thing going, but we need souls if we’re ever going to enjoy it. We need artists, photographers, sculptors. We need the opera and the ballet, even if you’ve never been. We need writers.
Not you, though. You’re not a writer. Your stuff looks like someone covered an epileptic in glue, and let him run around a fucking Scrabble factory. I hear Costa are hiring.