I’m a writer.
But I don’t subscribe, like many other writers and artists, that it was some sort of calling. That I couldn’t have been anything else. I am not that romantic.
I could have been many things. I once applied to the military, I was to become a drill-sergeant- but I never showed up at the interview.
As a child, I dreamed of being the next Bon Jovi.
For a time, I was convinced that I was a comedian. As an insecure young man, making people laugh made me feel powerful. It wasn’t enough to tell jokes however. I wanted to confront people with the awful truth. Similar to George Carlin and Bill Hicks; I wanted to an uncompromising social-critic. I studied these men, I tried to imitate their sense of timing.
I’m not sure if being on stage is the scariest place to be. It probably isn’t. But for spoiled westerners with an inferiority complex, it probably was.
Suddenly I found myself writing some words and soon enough, my stand-up ambition disappeared. You’re a lot safer on pager than you are on stage. Like all writers, I thought I had the craft from the moment I tried it.
I was wrong and it took a long time for me to find this out.
Writing is exile: it doesn’t matter how bad your life is going, it doesn’t matter that you’re losing everything, what matters most is the words on paper.
I was wrong about this, but it took me so long to find this out.
I would smoke pot and write for hours. It was better than slaving away at school or some petty job. Like all entitled young men: I believed I would find my way. I was protected from the kind of misery I would write stories about. It just wouldn’t happen to people like me.
The rites of passage is about discovering that you’re not special.
You’re just another human, trying to make sense of your existence. At school they don’t tell you how the world works, how your mind works. When they do try to tell you, it’s too late. You’ve already been indoctrinated by the marketeers of some reality. You’ve already spun yourself in some sort of dream.
My innocence is long gone. I smoked it, fucked it, smashed it, murdered it, gave it away.
Now after all these years, because it’s the only thing I kept going while the world around me was falling apart, I find myself writing again.
I’m a writer but there’s nothing remotely special about me.