Monday, November 15, 2010

It's Only Obscure If You Forgot To Open Your Eyes

Bear with me. I'm trying to cobble a few things together, bring in some old words with some new. Writing is on my mind. The art of it, the commerce of it, but mostly the art. Since there ain't but 3 people reading this, I'm ringing the bell. School's in. The topic: "If You Aren't Willing, Or Able, To Put In The Work, IT WILL NOT LOVE YOU BACK." This counts as 100 percent of your grade. Show all work.

Another fine writer coined that solid sentence. That sentence is hard as a rock and warm as gold. Read it again, dammit, while I go fantasize about Rosario, which I haven't done for a minute.

"If you aren't willing, or able, to put in the work, it will not love you back." -- Warren "Nuttin' But A G-thang" Bonner

That right there, chirren, is truth. And it applies to all of life. That's what truth does. Truth is like greens juice on your plate: soaks up in everything regardless of whether you want it to. Whatever you want to love you in life, whether it's a career or person or the Spirit above, if you aren't willing to put in the work it will not love you back. It cannot love you back. Love between you will not flow.

Writing needs a reason. Needs a goal. We write in diaries & journals to give form to otherwise shapeless days. We write creatively to show God we're paying attention. Novels exist to share space with the Bible. Writing needs a reason to be read. I posted on deejay Michael Baisden's social site for writers a few moons ago about how sooooo many folks who don't write worth a damn are suddenly proud patriots exercising their democratic right to free speech and a quicker buck. I got a response from someone trolling the site saying I couldn't write worth a damn. I know that's not true. The reader, who I didn't know existed till then, took umbrage with the message because he was basically stupid and didn't want to admit it. Made his response a personal attack complete with snide tone. Snide can't hide. I'm not professional or anything but I can definitely write worth a damn. That ain't ego, that's truth. I didn't just sit down, put on a paper mask and say "I'm a writer." I have studied word construction, story structure, cadence, psychology; I have been critiqued left, right, up and down by writers a hundred times better than I'll ever be and I've lived to tell the tale. I've even made a few dollars writing. Publication's a beautiful thing, but there's no correlation between that and a poolside view of a Maserati and impossibly-boobed women tired of their clothes. I know I'm a writer because I've put in the work. And I know that there's no such thing as stopping putting in the work. When a person starts thinking 'This is it, I've reached the pinnacle, I don't have to put in any more work', understand this: that person is a fool. I say to myself, "I ain't the shit, but I wanna be the shit" so that I'll never stop needing to learn more.

I guess what I wanna say to all 3 of y'all out there is yes, this is my passion. This is my opinion. And writing does give me peace. But before I put something out for consumption, I stop to ask, 'What am I giving out?' McDonald's, or something grilled on the bbq with my own two hands?

Additional thought: a lot of writing isn't doing; it's UN-doing.

And I'm out. More to come soon. For now, the wife has joined me upstairs, and the internet is a dead thing compared to a soft smile. Come back though; there's a chance I just might explain the universe in 3 parts. A good chance.

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