If I am a writer, I need to write. I can claim all that crap about how it gives me life. But right now, I need to write because it is nothing other than therapeutic and is a lesser vice than the other ones calling me into the night.
It is therapeutic. So is music. And I know that a lot of my written rambles will disappear into the trash can of all deleted files on every computer ever. What a pile of leaves that’d be.
I really want to be a novelist, but being a writer is a little different. And it isn’t always awesome that this form of stream-of-conscious typing comes a lot easier. Writing fiction is harder – any writer will tell you.
I don’t know why – other than you need experience, creativity, and clarity to form a story. And those things aren’t always easy to come by.
When life get’s hard, I really would advise to myself to both wait it out, but more importantly do the thing you want to do, that won’t fuck yourself.
Hey, I’ve got a lot to say. All about how it is helpful to have someone believe in you/ your writing. And all the mistakes I’ve made that make it hard to live with myself. And how Sunday nights have always been an optional night for writing a blog post.
And how substitute teaching is optional – how you can back out any night that you’d rather smoke a cigarette and regret it til’ morning. But tonight, I wrote.
Ben Bonkoske 