“Your writing is wonderful.” She paused, drenching her next words in pity, bitterness, and familiarity.
“The inside of your mind must be a terrible place.”
And she wasn’t wrong.
People write because they need to write, or they hope to find the sanity merged within the ink on the page, or they hope that someone else can find the sense that they’ve misplaced, or they hope that maybe – just maybe – something they’ve done can be permanently etched into the history of humanity that convinces others (or more dangerously, themselves) that what they’ve mundanely done is worth something.
Isn’t it ironic?
One worthwhile thing done to justify the other worthwhile things makes those other things meaningless anyway.
They often say not to show your writing to other people unless you want it to get torn apart. People ruin beautiful things, they said. And they aren’t wrong either.
But my writing isn’t pretty. My writing is the trash that I need to dump in order to purify my thoughts once more. Do monsters make war? Or does war make monsters? Do writers show the gnarled rottenness of life, the ugly sneer of the days that pass, the bittersweet stench of what-ifs and has-beens? Or do those gnarled, rotten, ugly, sneering, bittersweet moments make the writers?
What does it matter when all that’s left in the end is the writer and a pile of pages that no one wants to read?