Writing is the only place where I'm in control. My society doesn't respect me. I'm young and don't make any money. Nobody takes a broke 30-year-old dude with no kids seriously.
What about Musk and Zuck and Jobs and Gates, the gods of our times who changed the world in their 20s? What about the actors and athletes, the pop stars and models who came up in their late teens?
I'm just frustrated cause I chose a game where you don't get good till you're 60. Until then I'm practicing. But I still want people to listen, dammit.
I'm conflicted. One part of me – the one who's learned from great writers – knows that the craft requires decades of diligent work. The other part wants to be rich and famous right now because they're the markers of success.
Fuck that shit. Telling the fuckin truth's the only marker. The truth's the guide, the light, the fire in the night. It's the only real thing out there. Maybe pain. Life is suffering. True. What are you gonna do about it?
Write. I write to alleviate the pain of my suffering. And in doing so, I hope to find a tonic, a salve that works for my people. Here's a cold cloth on a hot summer's day. Here's a tall glass of water with ice, lemon, and mint. Lie back on the pillows, close your eyes and relax.
Eugh. I feel like Jeff Epstein. No, I don't. I feel like a blind mole rat scrabbling away at a concrete fuckin wall. I'm a rat in a cage and the only way out is through Winston Smith's face. Hold onto your butts; it's slobbering time.
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