Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Chicken-Ass, Chicken (and Maybe A Fool)


I want to be a writer. But let's face it, you can't be a great writer, or even a good one, if you are—like I am—a coward. To write is to be fearless. You must be totally honest—writing and living without censor. You have to write the hard stuff, the impossibly painful, the ugliest things, or you are not really writing.  All this bullshit, I can’t believe it myself.

It's true. 

I am not fearless. I am a coward. I hate to be told what to do, but then I do it. Wimp. Fraud. Loser. I let others dictate what I should do. I can’t write about that it might hurt someone’s feelings—inadvertently of course. I say that I don’t care much what people think…but I am a liar.

Maybe I feel like a fraud because I am not being true to myself. (How do you like that psyco-babble?) Maybe I feel like a loser because I want to write and be a writer (like full-time, all the time) but I am toiling away at a thankless job. I have very little potential left for anything worthwhile or artistic, and I choose to work for money and not for love. What a joke? How totally disgusting.

Could my complaint and the antidote be one in the same?  

All these vagaries are crippling. Hey, there coward, why can't you write what you came here to write? 

Good fucking question.

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