It is not that I cant write anything at all, it’s that I need a story to tell. Fucking story, that’s right. I don’t know if I should be reading or writing or what the fuck to do in order to get it, but I do know the inspiration comes and goes like a freaking cold. When it comes its a blissful experience, as the virus of inspiriations spread itself inside my body multiplying the words and thoughts by an infinite amount. When it dies out, its carries the symptoms of withdrawal. It takes some getting used to. After you have just wrote like a freaking Stephen King on cocaine, you now have to deal with the loss and face your pathetic self in the eye, and say to yourself that you are worth dog’s shit as it comes to writing.
So thoughts can come in all forms, but what does it take for it to become a book? I know I try to write descriptive, painting a picture with words in a sense, but that is just one part of the equation, maybe the least of which carries you to the heights of writing a book. Authenticity, originality, good story, good plot, characters, and a number of fucking other things make a book. I think, no- I know!- that I have it somewhere deep with in me buried under the layers of wallowing and self pity, crying about how the world is cruel,and all the other excuses. It’s there, brewing inside of me like a tea in a kettle, just waiting for a moment to burst out with that loud hiss, that when you hear you know it’s happened.
And what the fuck is with the fact that I write on English even though I am a Croatian, which I care for with the same zeal as I would for a blade of grass caught in a whirlwind. English has always been with me, words only multiplying themselves inside my mind, and the sentences, without no proper knowledge of grammar, arrange themselves up over the years.
There is a number of talks and courses and what not on how to become a writer, and what the conclusion I derive from it all is one thing. And one thing alone. Experience. What makes a good writer is first and foremost an experience he had that either got him into the writing shitcreek or infused his words with that utter most pain or experience he had endured or went through. Likes of S. King and George R.R. Martin that, in that one talk I watched, where they said, how for example, rats have given them an idea, and launched their brain child of writing inside of them. So, what kind of experience are there to be lived in order to be a writer? Why can’t I just think of a story, and write a a book and sell it and make a good life, so I don’t have to work anything else for the rest of my life, and live off of the lorals of my accomplishments. That’s funny really.
The writer has to go through a series of a shitstorms in order to be good, recognized. Yes, that’s right. Life has to suck. No freaking golden child, born with a silver spoon in his mouth had ever amount to something in regards to writing. And look at my writing now, I write like a freaking englishman, with a speed of a 15 letters per sec and I can’t not relate that to my reading. The books that I read whether English or Croatian, or whatever, in which ever way shape or form they come they do something to my mind. Even though I am not entirely aware or not at all for that matter, my subconscious mind drinks it all in like a fine chardonnay. It inebriates itself with the knowledge which later on the fucker just shares if it’s in the mood for.
Why doesn’t something stick with me consciously? Why do I have to go through all this agony of waiting and expecting something to stick. I can write it yeah sure, but then I would have to read it sometime again, wouldn’t I? Well, I think that the brain knows best. I know – how the fuck? Yeah, but maybe it’s all we ever had is our brain. Nothing else is actually real. Have you ever though about that? Maybe the thoughts we so keenly tend to sign to our fucked up selves aren’t really ourselves? What if there is someone who pulls the strings of our consciousness. What if every moment is already written in stone, and what if we cant change one bit. So some say: ‘But I can decide one thing than do the other. How does that feel you twisted fuck?’ Well, I know I might argue that this is the truth, but hear me out for a sec.
The thoughts we have are one and only. There will be only one thing that will happen, and only one. If you flip a coin and it falls on one side, it will only fall on one side! There won’t be two sides at the same time, showing themselves simultaneously, but only ONE.
So, my question is this. How the fuck can we take any responsibility for our lives, when it’s all happened, happening, or happened before? Do you understand this? And what does it tell us about our writing?
Maybe there is a Mark Twain, Stephen King, James Rollins hiding in just some of us, and some are just not cut out for it. What differentiates them from the rest of the non S.Kings, Mark Twains and so on, is the determination and the searing desire for it. The flame that never burns out no matter how much it had been choked or extinguished. In my opinion it is the desire inside of you that lets you know if you are one of the cursed few.
So, this is a rant that just came out of me when I decided to write no matter what. To not stop and just pour my mind on the blank page in that given moment. So, my thoughts, feelings, and mood are all conveyed in this piece of shit of a text written above. I decided to share it with you. Maybe it carries some meaning that which I don’t know of or hadn’t think of one yet, but I encourage you to find it.