Tuesday, June 20, 2006

one for the fans

recently i have received a few compliments on my writing, at how funny it is, and how real, and how i always seem to tie everything up.

i'm going to let you in on a little secret, o beloved nonexistant readers: the posts that i enjoy writing the most, and get the most out of later, seem to happen to me rather than by me.

what do i mean? well, let me splain. no, no, there is too much, let me sum up.

i will use in memoriam as an example (don't ask me to find it, i will get all caught up in rereading old posts and completely derail my train of thought for this one), i started out with a plan in mind. i am going to talk about johnny carson and his influence on my life.

somewhere in the course of writing that particular post, things got completely away from me. i bawled like i haven't in a long time while posting. i wrote about things that if you had asked me two seconds before, i would've told you i wouldn't be able to convey with words. i wrote about them, and managed to nail what i wanted to say. i purged myself onto the page in a way that was healthy and made sense to others who read it.

i don't know where it came from.

and alot of what i write is this, dear reader, simply divine inspiration, or sheer dumb luck, or que se yo. even on the little tag lines at the end that tie everything up, i don't set out with that tagline in mind. i get to the end and think, "holy shit, this would be a clever way to finish".

and i think that is how some of my favorite writers did it. they set out to jot something down, and occasionally it got away from them in a good way. a very organic experience. a cleansing. therapy.

and, o my beloved nonexistant readers, who surely exist as people, but in my head exist as only a concept, that is what writing for me has always been.

from the first time i grabbed a notebook with bile in my soul, and put a shirt across the bottom of the door so my parents wouldn't know i was still up and sat hunched over on my bed and vomitted all my pain and angst and self-loathing and bitterness and futility onto the page in the form of a poem, to today, when issues i have with my father melt away, fade, and all but disappear.

writing, quite frankly, has kept me alive.

but the most important thing i would convey with today's post, o my beloved nonexistant readers (and, yes, i know you exist, you leave me comments all the time telling me you do, but it still cracks me up to call you nonexistant. yes, i know i am fucked-up. no, i am not seeking help for it) is that i am flattered beyond words that when i have my little therapy sessions, whether it be here on on the real page, you enjoy reading them. that they make you laugh. that they make you cry. and if it were simply my close family who were telling me this, i might take it with a grain of salt, but i get it from many sides.

so, by way of passing this along to all of you out there who stop by this drop of dew (or more like dried-up fly husk) on the world wide web, a hearty thank you, and to those who manage to tell me how much they like it, an even bigger thank you, and to all, keep it up, you don't know how good it makes me feel.

"holy shit, this would be a clever way to finish."

darth sardonic

1 Comments:

Blogger Courtney said...

As you know, you were the one who inspired and encouraged me to start my own blog. You also know that I've loved your blog since I started reading it and I find it not only enjoyable but hysterically funny at times, always enthralling, and often thought provoking. Today's post was wonderful..as usual.

11:13 AM  

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