There is no high for me, like that of really great writing. A sort of excitement pumps through my veins that is a lopsided combination of breathless inspiration and crippling awe. Certain authors, like George Saunders, David Sedaris… pretty much any author featured in The New Yorker, have this effect on me. It’s a simultaneous rush to be the best writer I could possible be, but then met with this crashing self-loathing that’s like “haha, nice try kid. Stick to the fluff.” I’m sure that’s normal, yeah? These writers did not wake up brilliant, well I mean I am sure that is not true. Okay, maybe they woke up brilliant, but even still they had to fine-tune that brilliance, so it wasn't just a non-nonsensical babble of words - kind of like this is turning into.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the fluff. I read the fluff, I write the fluff. I live by the motto that the world is harsh and the fluff is a healthy way to escape it, much healthier than a surprise cocktail of Uppers and Downers dug out of the junk drawer of a doctor's office. Ideally, I’d write the fun stuff, then as time went on, my tastes would grow and change, as they should in life in general, and my writing would mature until a young girl in a small town would read it in a fancy new York magazine and get goosebumps and say to herself, “Holy shit. I want to write like this.”
It’s amazing to me that words, a combination of twenty-six, simple letters, are responsible for all the most beautiful writing in the world. And, yes maybe I read that somewhere, possible it was a quote on a Pinterest with a picture of an antique bookshelf as the background, but it doesn’t change the fact that the statistic is totally staggering. An infinite (?) amount of combinations that somehow makes you feel things. Think about it the ink on a page is causing you to laugh, to hurt, to ache; it’s truly magic. Writing is magic. It’s fantastic, isn’t it?
I know I am going off on a tangent here, but it’s lovely, any art really. You know that song you hear and you just want to cry and call up your ex-best friend from third grade and apologize for stealing her Pogs? Or that piece of art that you look at and immediately feel the need to hug your mom? Or that movie that sinks under skin so much that three nights later you are still trying to figure out how it’s possible for a man to fall in love with an Operating System? Or that poem that makes you scratch your head and say, “what the fuck does that mean?” and makes you kind of angry, but that’s okay because at least it is evoking emotion and isn’t that the whole point of art?
The point is, these things are bloody brilliant. And they mean the world to someone, and that alone is pretty impressive. Sometimes, no matter how the world gets me down, I think about these things and I think that we really can’t be all that terrible of a species if we are capable of producing these magical things with such love.
So carry on friends and support art, create art, experience art.
Current song: “It’s Oh So Quiet” by Bjork.