I am really frustrated with this world. I mean, we have to work hard for what we want but yet it is still unattainable and that just infuriates me to the core. I guess it is that constant ” American dream ” we strive for.
That notion that when one works hard you reap the rewards, to me it seems a false ambition. The reality, you can work as long and as hard as you like, but life might not reward you, not give you what you deserve and this is aggravating, life’s nonsensical hacks, totally discombobulates me.
This drug, that envelops us and makes us possibly strive for the “unstrivable.” I look to my mentors, the likes of Eisenberg, who never lifted a pen until she stopped smoking, and sought out writing to be her new vice. Bukowski who went on to call his disdain towards writing the “ten year drunk “as he recalls it ” or Pollock who worked as a meat packer.
I presume it is the knowledge of knowing that you have found something, something that describes you, molds you and represents you, something you could see yourself doing all day everyday and then slowly pushing against it. Not adhering to the sounds, doing all within yourself to resist your carnal urge to purge words from your soul, regardless the manner.
I admire these literary greats. They show me that, to truly be a writer, a giver of words, you need to be scarred, perplexed, mixed with intuition pushed by instinctive writing. Putting pen to paper, spreading sentiment through ink.
Marshallwrites 