GIVE ME FIVE BEES FOR A QUARTER











{July 21, 2009}   Writing

Creative writing talent falls into two very simple categories:

Will: If you write creatively, telling stories and what-not, statistically you’re generally a young male, between the age of 16 and 25. There’s a compulsion to do it; you have no real choice in the matter. It’s like a pressure in your head: if you don’t tell the story, it’s like it’ll either burst in your mind, or melt away before you can grip its potential. I think all decent creative writers have this sort of… compulsion, for lack of a better word, to tell tales. And if they’re not doing it, it’s like some sort of withdrawal. It itches at you until you cave in.

Time: And this one’s the clincher. In your teenage years you’ve all the time in the world, and if your will’s in it, you will write. But you will write garbage, largely, because you are inexperienced. This isn’t an insult, it’s just the way it is. Writers always say, you write about what you know. And at 19, you know fuck all compared to what you’ll know at 25. If you’re 19 and reading this, you’ll think I’m talking bullshit. But give it six years and revisit the point. You’ll see what I mean. The worst part about this is, as you gain your essential experience for writing and better relating to your fellow humans, society takes your free time away from you. Because now you’re in a full-time job, pouring your energy and time into making that job work out. You no longer have free time on your side, and you’ll lose that compulsion. It just ebbs out of you. It comes back, now and again, whenever you take a holiday that’s longer than a weekend, but ultimately you’ve lost your grip on your muse. Your muse can’t talk to you while you’re working, and it doesn’t have the energy to influence you over a mere weekend, most of which you’ll spend drunk or hungover.

And that’s writing. I always wished I could write more, write better, connect to people, tell stories you’d care about. But the construct of the working world has taken that from me, and now you can go fuck yourself. My stories stay in my head, unfinished and wanting.



et cetera