writing

It is a dark time right now.

Our President wants to send more troops to Iraq, as if that would help. Our pop cultural heroes keep dying off, reminding us of our own mortality. The villains seem to win or get away unscathed, shuffling off from this mortal coil without having to answer for their crimes.

People are writing less, blogging less. Even myself. I took some time off from blogging last year because I thought I needed to, but I discovered I was wrong.

I like to write. I like to blog. I don't do it for money, or so that I can attract advertisers and generate whore-cash. I don't write to get published, and I don't write to convince the world of my point of view.

I write because it is in me. It has always been in me. And if it is in me, then it needs to come out and get into you.

I gave up on chastising the lazy bloggers and the fairweather writers a long time ago. I don't care anymore if I post rambling blog entries and get zero comments. I don't give a shit if you like what I have to say or not.

I'm going to keep writing, and I'm not going to give up.


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Writing is the only thing at which I am good.

That is to say, writing is the only thing that makes me feel like a true Master.

There will always be more skilled bassists, or more talented artists, or people with funnier stories or far more advanced conversational techniques. There will always be men more handsome than me, or more rugged than me, or more sensitive than me. There will always be someone just a little bit better than me in general.

But when it comes to writing, no one is better than me. That is because no one can write like me, and my writing resembles nobody else's prose.

The great ones are only great because they are widely distributed and read. But I can write better than Hemingway, Steinbeck, and Bukowski.

Wanna know why? Wanna know what's behind my ballsy reasoning?

Because those guys are dead, and I'm still here.

Their words remain, and their words are inspirational and eternal and classic. Their words and their works are enduring pieces of art that stretch into infinity and elevate their ranking damn near sainthood.

But they're dead, and I'm still here. And as far as other living writers go, I'm better than the whole lot of 'em.

That is the attitude one must have when approaching the blank page or the typewriter or the computer keyboard. Otherwise, you shouldn't be writing at all.


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Blood spills in a foreign land. Over here, on the homefront, people are acquiescing left and right, settling for less, throwing the fight, taking dives and accepting bribes.

I don't blame them. They have no choice. They have nothing to fight for, they have no dreams left. The world has plundered their souls and taken all it can take. They have nothing left to offer up in the way of sacrifice.

They live in the real world, where rents can't be be paid and jobs are lost. They live in the material world, where money and bullshit walk hand in hand like a lovestruck couple unaware of their apparent mental illnesses. They live in the physical world where ideas have no weight and currency and therefore serve no purpose...

...and yet they wonder why things are slowly turning insane around them.

I live inside my head. I like living there-- it is preferable to this ugly realm that everyone else seems bound to, this prison for the unimaginative and feeble.

Call me a dreamer. Go ahead. I don't care. We just celebrated the life and death of a dreamer yesterday, so I don't mind it at all. To be in the company of people like MLK or John Lennon is fine with me.

They're dead, but their words live on.

Tell me, people of Earth: When you die, are your words going to live on, or are you taking them with you into the grave?

I know where my words will be-- spinning into eternity!


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I am no longer disappointed by everyone's refusal to realize their own true potentials.

The way I see it, their insistence on bowing down before their insatiable gods and demons is an advantage for me.

What they disinherit-- the kingdom of heaven, peace and prosperity --is all mine for the taking. I have no competition. No one is trying to beat me to it.

I can take my time, or I can rush headlong into the thick of it.

I have choices.

Tell me, people of Earth: What choice do you have when you've thrown in the towel and resigned yourself to defeat so early in the game?

Answer: None. You have no choices when you let the world win.

I'll tell you what: I may not be making any money off of this writing thing, but I feel like I am a wealthy man anyway.


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One of these days I'll get it right. One of these days I'll string the right amount of letters together and form some magic sentence that will unlock the mysteries of the universe and bring happiness and joy to all who are literate and lucky enough to read it.

Until then, I'm going to keep on writing, and I'm not going to stop.

What are you going to do until then?