Thank you, Alex. As a brilliant and prolific author, I identified with this essay. Indeed, people often ask me why I write. “Daniel,” they beg. “Why do you write?” “What inspires you?” “What compels you?” “How are you able to maintain such a consistently high quality of output, particularly during these unprecedented times?” And to these people, I say: If you cut me, I bleed ink. My skin is parchment. My eyes are full stops. My ears are question marks. My fingers are em-dashes. My toes are en-dashes. My colon is a colon.
No surprise that others have preceded you. "Why I write" — an essay by George Orwell, written in 1946 after Animal Farm and before 1984. His reasons were summed up in a crib-sheet site as:
"1) egoism; 2) aesthetic enthusiasm; 3) historical impulse; and 4) political purpose.
Egoism is the desire to be thought clever, be talked about when alive, and remembered after death.”
30 years later, in 1976, Joan Didion, on the same subject, began by evoking Orwell, and wrote, "During those years [as a student at Berkeley] I was traveling on what I knew to be a very shaky passport, forged papers: I knew that I was no legitimate resident in any world of ideas. I knew I couldn't think. All I knew then was what I couldn't do. All I knew then was what I wasn't, and it took me some years to discover what I was.
I literally read JD’s version this morning!! Then I wrote my version. I’m on a biiiiig JD kick rn. Trying to figure out why she’s so good, so far I’ve honed in on the almost non sequitor jumps between ideas and drier than dry humor
Love the coincidence! I like her ideas about just writing. But she’s a great observer, too. But I grew up on Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London, which taught me that helps a writer to get out and immerse.
There are no words for how much I love this. I hope your arms are perky soon, that you love your new home as much as I know it loves you, and that all is well in your world. Unlike Kafka, you, friend, are not forsaken.
May I continue with Kafka? The same year, the same month:
"Monday, July 6. Began a little. Sightly sleepy. And lonely among all these absolutely strange people. July 9. Didn't write for so long. Start tomorrow. Otherwise I again stick into expanding irrepressible discontent..." I wish you all Kafka's success to be not "forsaken." Loved your essay.
Sorry, I don't understand your comment at all. What is it? Bad joke? My comment had been written on somebody (don't remember name) essay? remark? about Kafka's difficulty with his start of writing.
Despite the fact that there are times when i can write longer texts in a kinda flow-like form, most of the time when i wanna write, so many "what if ....?"s come to my mind. Arrrrrrrrrrggggghhhh!🤬🤬 i wish i could just erase these "what if"s completely🙏😂😉
Because if I dont write my heart feels disappointed in me. I used to struggle writing until I found my voice as a writer. From that moment on, I was able to take the darkness of my mind and transform it into a wild ride for the reader. To be able to see the raw world from my eyes. Always remember..."write drunk,edit sober" 😃🙃
Thank you, Alex. As a brilliant and prolific author, I identified with this essay. Indeed, people often ask me why I write. “Daniel,” they beg. “Why do you write?” “What inspires you?” “What compels you?” “How are you able to maintain such a consistently high quality of output, particularly during these unprecedented times?” And to these people, I say: If you cut me, I bleed ink. My skin is parchment. My eyes are full stops. My ears are question marks. My fingers are em-dashes. My toes are en-dashes. My colon is a colon.
“My colon is a colon” just took me out 😂 wasn’t expecting that end, and loved the comment!
hehehe
"my colon is a colon" 😂
Great comment.
No surprise that others have preceded you. "Why I write" — an essay by George Orwell, written in 1946 after Animal Farm and before 1984. His reasons were summed up in a crib-sheet site as:
"1) egoism; 2) aesthetic enthusiasm; 3) historical impulse; and 4) political purpose.
Egoism is the desire to be thought clever, be talked about when alive, and remembered after death.”
30 years later, in 1976, Joan Didion, on the same subject, began by evoking Orwell, and wrote, "During those years [as a student at Berkeley] I was traveling on what I knew to be a very shaky passport, forged papers: I knew that I was no legitimate resident in any world of ideas. I knew I couldn't think. All I knew then was what I couldn't do. All I knew then was what I wasn't, and it took me some years to discover what I was.
"Which was a writer.
"By which I mean not a 'good' writer or a 'bad' writer but simply a writer, a person whose most absorbed and passionate hours are spent arranging words on pieces of paper.” [https://www.nytimes.com/1976/12/05/archives/why-i-write-why-i-write.html]
You’re in good company. I expect, in a couple of years, a 50th anniversary tribute to Joan Didion.
I literally read JD’s version this morning!! Then I wrote my version. I’m on a biiiiig JD kick rn. Trying to figure out why she’s so good, so far I’ve honed in on the almost non sequitor jumps between ideas and drier than dry humor
Love the coincidence! I like her ideas about just writing. But she’s a great observer, too. But I grew up on Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London, which taught me that helps a writer to get out and immerse.
🔥🔥🔥
There are no words for how much I love this. I hope your arms are perky soon, that you love your new home as much as I know it loves you, and that all is well in your world. Unlike Kafka, you, friend, are not forsaken.
I would write but I'm feeling a little insectile today
I read this somewhere on the Stack... "To not write is to not be me"
May I continue with Kafka? The same year, the same month:
"Monday, July 6. Began a little. Sightly sleepy. And lonely among all these absolutely strange people. July 9. Didn't write for so long. Start tomorrow. Otherwise I again stick into expanding irrepressible discontent..." I wish you all Kafka's success to be not "forsaken." Loved your essay.
Sorry, I don't understand your comment at all. What is it? Bad joke? My comment had been written on somebody (don't remember name) essay? remark? about Kafka's difficulty with his start of writing.
Truth
Welcome to your new digs!
Love this. I can’t write a clever response.
I’ve enjoyed my lifetime of not writing almost as much as I’ve enjoyed my lifetime of reading…
"...forsaken among these complete strangers." Which could describe practically every protagonist in every Kafka story and novel.
Despite the fact that there are times when i can write longer texts in a kinda flow-like form, most of the time when i wanna write, so many "what if ....?"s come to my mind. Arrrrrrrrrrggggghhhh!🤬🤬 i wish i could just erase these "what if"s completely🙏😂😉
My man Franz.
Because if I dont write my heart feels disappointed in me. I used to struggle writing until I found my voice as a writer. From that moment on, I was able to take the darkness of my mind and transform it into a wild ride for the reader. To be able to see the raw world from my eyes. Always remember..."write drunk,edit sober" 😃🙃
Extremely true.
I write because this is what is wanting to get out...
ONE HIT WONDER- RUFF CUT
J.GRIFFIN 5/24
In the icy grip of Chicago's night,
Lost in a goddamn haze of booze and blow,
Screaming into the void, a futile fight,
Where even the demons have gone cold.
Evil's tired, fuckin' bored of this shit,
Dragging down a soul that's already damned,
No more tricks up its sleeve, not a bit,
Just leaving' me here, broken and unmanned.
I think 'bout that demon inside, that fuckin' angel too,
Should've silenced her naggin' ass long ago,
Her voice like nails on a chalkboard, fuckin' cruel,
Pushin' me deeper into this goddamn undertow.
But then, a flicker in the darkness, a neon sign,
"GIRLS...GIRLS...GIRLS!" it fuckin' screams,
Just what this night, this darkness, is mine,
A taste of feminine chaos, ripped at the seams.
Into that den of vice, I stumble, fuckin' fall,
Stale smoke and cheap booze fill the air,
Amongst the fuckin' degenerates, my brethren all,
Lost souls drowning' in their own despair.
But here, in this fuckin' cesspool, there's peace,
In our shared depravity, no masks, no lies,
Just a bunch of motherfuckers lookin' for release,
In the midst of chaos, we find our goddamn highs.
Drug dealers and traders, they're all the same,
Snortin' lines off a stripper's fuckin' ass,
In this moment, we ain't playin' no fuckin' game,
Bound by the thrill of the chase, the fuckin' mass.
For one goddamn night, we're kings of this scene,
Rockstars in a motel room's fuckin' gloom,
But when the dawn breaks, reality's fuckin' mean,
Leaving' us with nothin' but the goddamn fume.
Yet for that night, just one night, I fuckin' soared,
On wings of lust and vice, I fuckin' flew,
In the heart of darkness, where neon's fuckin' roared,
I was a goddamn rockstar, just for you.