Bookmark #945

Lately, I have shaken my head wildly trying to get rid of a thought I cannot shake, that the most ridiculous part about my life are these words I write, that the root of my cyclical dissatisfaction from life is simply that I am not valued for this: the writer I pretend to be.

If this were an ordinary life full of ambition, there would be endless contentment in it. But since this thorn in my side—that I need to write, that I have not written yet, or that nothing has come out of it—continues torturing me daily, something is always amiss.

I begin my days by wasting three hours staring at a blank page, or I harass myself for every second until I finish a piece. If it were an everyday life, and by that, all I mean is if I were like other people in that I did not have this obsession from an early age, I would be content knowing that I do good work all through the day, which I get paid and celebrated for. But for no reason other than a hodgepodge of nature and nurture, I have become convinced that the only kind of pursuit worth pursuing is artistic.

In fact, if you were to take my life at face value and if there was an inventory of what brings the most results—of any kind—my work would always trump my writing, which may be on the last or penultimate spot on the list.

And this is what the original problem, the biggest issue, is all about:

If I were to list all the things I am respected for in my life, these words would not make the cut, for no one reads them, and if someone reads them, they do it out of some personal allegiance to me, and even that fails eventually. Take my friends and family into account, who, for all their education and knowledge, fail to find time to read a piece which lasts a couple of minutes.

Even the momentary attention I get for sitting in a cafe and ordering a tea or coffee I can as quickly make at home for one-tenth of the cost, and even the cursory consideration I get for going to a bar and ordering absurd amounts of liquor is the result of the money I have earned, which is indirectly a result of the work I do.

“Oh, what do you write about?”
“Nothing that matters.”

I often have this exchange. Perhaps I ought to take my word for it.

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