I find myself craving to write, almost as much as I used to crave for sex, when I was young. The young virgin boy craving for the young girls, the way virgin boys do. All the features of the idea have gotten transposed into other medium by this late date in my life. Never having been married, I guess there aren’t many of my old girlfriends who would have too much of a reaction to the idea that my passions have migrated elsewhere in my maturation. I think they were frustrated by the idea that I would never actually consider getting married. It wasn’t their fault. They didn’t grow up in the nightmare of a household that I did. They didn’t have the disillusionment with the idea of commitment that I’ve had to deal with all my life.
The act of sating my passions is still so illusive, even with what I’m doing with this blog this evening. It’s not the doing of the act that’s important, as much as it is the idea of the doing of the act, that is important. Maybe we ought to do that sentence over again. It’s not the doing of the act that’s important. It’s the idea of doing the act that’s important. It’s not what I’m getting that’s important. It’s what I think I’m getting that’s important. I’m writing, that’s what I crave to be doing, whether anyone benefits from my work or not. The need to satisfy the craving to write, to make myself understood in words, is still so strong in my heart – in this certain, overwhelming immediacy. It’s inexplicable.
I used to feel this way about playing guitar, about singing, about writing poetry, about driving a car. The act of satisfying a craving is so illusive to me, as much so now as it ever was with any of my cravings. I’ve known the frustrations of my passions in my day. I’m no novice, no beginner. My cherry was popped a long time ago.
It’s not that I’m trying to bash any individual or bash any institution, that is driving me to establish this document, to record this story. It’s just that I’ve been reading long enough, and therefore I must write now.
Writing has become my most recent, most avid of passions, now that I’ve ruined things with some important people in my life again. It’s such a disillusionment that I’ve destroyed a relationship. I think they were trying to get rid of me anyway, even before I posted elsewhere. My subject matter is just not their bag.
I’m into tearing down the walls of a prejudice. He’s into making money with blockbusters, now that he’s setting up a brave new world with the latest electronic media. He’s all caught up in opening up a new venue for the whole process of publication. I don’t have a problem with that.
But I’m all caught up in the idea of opening the minds of a people. There are those who think that having a medical problem with one’s mind is only being crazy. Having a problem with one’s thoughts is only horrible, the creator of horror. The public has got all these false ideas about guys like that. There’s so much of the world that thinks we’re either crazy or stupid, when we’re neither one. What I don’t understand is the people who want to make others feel bad, just because they can. I’m not like that. Give me enough of the right medication on a regular basis, and I’m good to go, almost like anyone. Why there are the prejudices there are is what I’m contesting, not trying to open up a whole new venue for publication.
Those two agenda are completely different, I have to admit, unless you happen to be a major player, like Martin Luther King, Jr, or Malcolm X. The world kills people like that, too. I’m only a little bit disillusioned about not having an audience that might want to come to gather at my feet, now that I realize I don’t. I don’t feel all that bad about it anymore, either. I’ll get over it. I’m wary of crowds anyway. I just hope I don’t ruin my whole life as a writer with all this rhetoric, but then, what do I have to lose anyway? I’ve always been a renegade. Why stop now?
I’ve gotten myself in hot water with a lot other people too, whenever I’ve written to clear my mind, as I’m doing now. There have been a lot of people in my life who have outright quit what they were doing to help me, because I wrote something down that I was thinking. I didn’t mean any offense, but they took offense, anyway.
I’ve always written whenever I’ve had a craving to, the way I’ve felt at this fleeting, ongoing moment. The idea that there’s no one to really send work like this to is nothing novel to me. James Taylor wrote about that concept a long time ago. It’s merely commonplace. Being rejected is what is commonplace with me.
I suppose there will be more hell to pay if I publish this on my blog, but I’m really not putting anyone down. A publisher needs to think of his bottom line. I need to break away from the idea that I cannot really come up with much fiction at the moment, but need to be writing nonetheless.
My friends have done what they can to support my writing over the years. I think I’ll just go ahead and blog this, whenever I’ve had my fill with writing it. There are times like this I can scarcely put down my laptop for just a moment.
But after awhile, I’ve spun the whole thing out, and I’m finally done with it.