Ben Bonkoske

Writer’s block is a symptom of not writing. It manifests itself when the author and the page are separated for too long. For as minimalist as I like to be, upon further reflection, I realize just how constrained I am to my surroundings. However, it isn’t until we recognize the unhealthy patterns, dignify them with a response, a vain recoil, that we let them have power over us. For example, smoking is rather enjoyable until you understand that it might kill you. It takes a hell of a lot of the fun out of it. I’m just peaches and cream. No, I did not sustain my militant pre-new year’s resolution through Christmas, in fact, I neglected any form of disciplinary routine and took a deep fucking breath. It was heaven for a good 48 hours. No letters, deadlines, expectations, just a normal family playing Pictionary. I should break out a good game of Scrabble now that I think about it. I have expanded my vocabulary 1.5 fold from last year. I don’t know what half of the words I use mean, and a little secret between you and I, you can get very far using simple language for simpletons. They like it that way. Nobody likes to feel stupid or secluded from the plot. An esoteric life is more than likely lonely, even if you are revered like Leonardo Da Vinci. I finally have learned to make what I love my work. My goal (among many, many, many refinements) is to make at least 1,000 dollars from my writing this year alone. That will be…5 times as much as this year. I also hope I can get away with saving the 200$ budget I have put aside for my latest piece of shit. Yes, everything I make from writing goes directly back into more and more and more little letters on the page that someone will take a gander at and think, “Humphf, ya know, I like that,” or “Gibberish, mad ramblings!” As long as it has some poignancy I will be able to sleep at night. Isn’t it ironic that school is such a drag well into your late teens, but becomes such a vessel for freedom later in life? I think I finally understand Fredrick Douglas when he said that through reading we can recognize we are slaves, and that is the only way out. (Excuse my paraphrase, and my audacity to say I relate with an African American slave. We should be all separated in our mentalities, shouldn’t we.) I’m glad I’m not bitter and sour yet. I’m sure it will come. I’m sure I will meet many writers I will hate for their talent. I just feel like the luckiest guy in the world that today, not tomorrow, but for the time being, I get to do what I love. And if I am lucky enough to do it today, I hope I am not bitter tomorrow.