“I don’t know how you guys get time to write. Takes me forever to write shit down.” – A Friend of mine talking to me on Twitter.
The thing is, once writing makes you her bitch, it’ll flow. You won’t be able to type fast enough to keep up with it. So you’ll get a voice recorder app, or an actual voice recorder to snag those ideas out of the ether. You’ll start carrying a notebook around with you and a couple of pens or pencils. Write that shit down man. If you really become hardcore about it, you’ll get a program or an app or something that will teach you how to type if you don’t know how. Or it’ll help you get really fast if you do. Gotta keep up with that shit in your head. You think faster than you type, always have and always will, but you’ll try and keep up, and you’ll fail. But you’ll keep at it anyway. Because that mistress, she’s such a ball-busting, slave driver of a bitch, she’ll keep cracking that whip. And the more she does, the more you will love her. Your thoughts get sharper, cleaner, more refined. The mental orgasms you have, and you’ll have them, when you complete a piece. That’s the shit baby. That’s the money shot.
And the tension that you create inside yourself when you’ve started something, but you haven’t worked on it, or finished it? That is a sweet suffering, a beautiful agony of your own creation. Sometimes I sit on something just to stew in it and suffer, but to get back to it is like drinking a glass of iced water when you’ve been wandering the desert for weeks on end. It’s like getting a woman aroused and seeing her panties getting wet.
You don’t get the time to write. You make the time to write. Because eventually you have to. It becomes a release. A catharsis. It is its own orgasm.
Reading is and has always been enjoyable to me. Now though, now there’s another element to it. I not only read to be entertained and to educate myself, but I read to sample nuances of other writers. It’s like wine tasting. You take a sip, swish it around in your mouth, and usually you’re supposed to spit it back out. Reading has become like that for me these days. I sample a writer, especially for their humor and I take it in and savor it. Only instead of spitting it back out, I swallow it down. Just like how I do wine tasting now that I think about it. I didn’t realize that you weren’t supposed to drink all the wine that you tasted, to me, wine tasting is a fun way to get really fucked up if that is your goal. Reading and then writing is kind of like that too, minus the hangover.
Lot of guys in the Twitterverse yammering on about procreation so that you have your “legacy.” Apparently in their world, that’s their mission. Wife a woman up, bang out a bunch of kids, save western civ, and boom! There’s your legacy.
Here’s a question for you though, some food for thought if you will:
What if your kids turn out to be pieces of shit? What if they don’t like you and want nothing to do with you in your old age? They don’t owe you an obligation just because you brought them into the world. What if in your declining years, your kids shuttle you off to a rest home, never to be seen again until your funeral? And then it’s off to the attorneys to fight over the pickings left behind, like vultures circling carrion. Didn’t think that could be your legacy did you?
You spent your life creating your legacy only to find out that your legacy doesn’t give a fuck about you. And two generations later, you’re forgotten anyways. Your great grandchildren, if there are any, barely remember you. And your great great grandchildren? You’ll be lucky that they even knew you, let alone of you. I’m not trying to be cynical here, it’s just the truth. It’s just reality.
If your mission is to leave a legacy behind, what better way than to write it down. Hell, half of the Bible is nothing but a recording of births. Why not do the same thing? You want to leave a legacy behind for future generations to enjoy, why not write a book or a blog? Why not put your thoughts down, even if you think they are boring and insignificant. Those thoughts and feelings might be insignificant to you, but what about to whoever ends up reading them? What is insignificant to you is profound to another. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure and all of that.
This is my legacy. This is what I leave behind. Sometimes boring, run of the mill, and yes even insignificant. At least for me, it’s my way of saying, “I am. I’m here. I was here.” I still get traction on posts that I wrote over a year ago when I decided to get serious about this. God knows why, but they do. I still get comments and e-mails about them, thanking me for writing them. They helped somebody out there, out. Good enough for me.
And if I ever have kids, this will be something that I’ll leave behind for them to remember me by. Warts and all. Maybe I’ll compile these posts into a book and put it on my shelf with the others that I hold near and dear. It could make an interesting conversation piece at least. “You wrote a book?” “Why yes, yes I did.”
If I end up with kids, and those kids have kids, and I give them this blog, or some form of book from it, and those kids read it, at the minimum they’ll probably say, “Grandpa was a weird fucker.” Yes, my 5 year old grandkids and great grandkids will swear.
And if I don’t have kids, so the whole grand and great grandkid thing will be a moot point? Somebody somewhere will find this and read it, eventually. And they will say the same thing, because they swear too.