Writing keeps me alive.
The experiment continues. A couple of months ago, death and its long ivory fingers reached unerringly for my throat. Writing, the act of writing, held them off. The effort of putting words to paper continues to do so today.
The stories that I wish to tell implore me — do not forsake us — and so, I stay the knife, the noose, the clack of pistol hammer slamming home against the breach.
But the pleading grows faint. The day-to-day grind draws its pint of life’s blood, its quart of soul from me every setting of the sun. The light turns orange and the lift I feel from the sunset’s cheery color lessens.
But the stories are relentless. They will not be, so far, denied. I rather resent them at times.
To abandon all that is this mundane daily slog and leap out, writing, would be everything I could have ever wished for. I’ve considered this act throughout this long, strange ride that is my life.
Yet here I am, an established, and dependable provider, dedicated to the mechanical production of money through the venue of software code; the ugliest, the most ineffectual end product the world has ever seen. Turn off the power and what do you have? Emptiness. That is my contribution. Despicable. These are the words that run through my mind right now — I FUCKING HATE COMPUTERS. But that sentiment is less than useful. We are here. Trapped in our digital snow globes. And the fact remains, I’m far more culpable that you. I helped create this dystopia we languish within.
But writing… It’s the only soaring vista that spreads out and returns, piercing my heart. Write. Write well and maybe all of this will not have been for naught.
Anonymole - apocryphal agitators 
I really felt this. A couple of weeks ago, I was reading a philosophy book that called out psychiatry for considering a person’s realization that life is ultimately meaningless as a symptom of an illness rather than an honest philosophical worldview that emerged out of sincere reflection. There have been several times I’ve considered life may ultimately be meaningless, too, but I am always drawn to the idea that if such is true, then our task is to create its meaning. And writing has helped me tremendously in creating that meaning for myself, as I think you’ve done, too.
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The absurdity of the universe is difficult to ignore. My idle mind tends to drift into that vacuum. Only writing helps me avoid the void.
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Just this afternoon I was wondering why it seems like not many people are bothered by the absurdity of it. Maybe it’s because of the fear of finding it all meaningless, so people avoid acknowledging it altogether? Yeah, writing does help. And reading philosophy books, too. It helps me feel less odd that I’m bothered about these things.
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In this regard, ignorance truly is bliss. I’ve often, not admired, but perhaps been envious of, people who take up the mantle of some cause (whatever it might be) and become passionate about that one thing.
To occupy the mind with concepts shy of “the heat death of the universe” must be comforting.
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You are a giant compared to whatever I can say. English is my second language. Everything in moderation is the motto of my day today. Even computers can be useful to some degree. I whish for you health to improve. Get well. Yes I know it is trivial.
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I thought I had followed you. You vanished into editing hell, I let you be. I saw you pop up again somehow, so here I am. Your favorite Devil’s advocate. Golf? Never got the bug. Maybe because the biggest clean, over dressed momma’s boy pansy we all knew in grade school played golf while the rest of us got dirty and dusty with “real” sports. Little did we know. Why guys keeps stacks of how-to books about golf in the back of their cars is beyond me. Except to get out of the house. Stories tell themselves. The writer’s job is to get out of their way on their journey to the page. Where you or I want them to go is immaterial. I read somewhere, recently, about what fits the story and the bits we like the most might be at odds. “This is my favorite chapter” or “scene”may be precious, and equally irrelevant. I found that profound. And profoundly disturbing from a “writer” POV. That and “wordiness” are sure signs we’re in the story’s way. The craft skills fall into place when the struggle for technique ceases. Golf and ballet and musicianship and writing are much the same. Technique is a wonderful asset. Heart is the key. The better we listen to our stories, the better we appear at writing them…
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And welcome back!
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(You had followed, I went through and stripped the world away.)
I (and my personal editor) finished the final draft on my first novel. I’m gonna drop it into Draft2Digital. I like the story, But it’s got it issues, so, I’m done with it…. moving on. (I did make a map for the story, for fun and because my editor requested one: https://drive.google.com/uc?view&id=1ppN4mEhcq85jdnTGDKg3RjxOC3tdmsDR)
I’ve been editing/submitting parts of the 3rd story to Scribophile. One has to earn points to submit there, but there are some great critics there — gave some good suggestions so far.
And the job has become exceedingly painful. But, I have no choice — I’m obsolete, I don’t really want to learn one more software module, so I’m stuck.
Writing is my one salvation, my own private universe.
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Aha. I can take a hint – Best of Luck!
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(This was back in January.) I’m done with my salted-earth approach now.
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You have suddenly reappeared! Missed you, Mole; your words are worthy of a great following. So write, my brother, write and live.
And, uh, thank you for the computer thing. I love ’em. 🙂
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Enjoyed that!
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