They say: Why do you write?
I say: It makes me feel better.
They say: Fine, but isn’t this your job, writing?
I say: Not anymore. I don’t enjoy writing for work. I don’t like my work. Writing books no one will ever read; writing articles no one will even hear of; writing opinion pieces that will be heard of and read but won’t change a single thing… It’s all a sham, a huge waste of time. We are puppets in a big, expensive production. The script is already written; the main actors and actresses are already chosen. They will be the ones who will get a standing ovation if they act according to the script. We, the puppets, are just there to watch the script unfold. We are lucky to be paid for it. At least we make a living!
They say: So the things you write on your blog… Do you think people read them? Do they care? Why should they be interested in your disoriented, chaotic and mostly gloomy musings?
I say: But I don’t write for them, I told you. I write for myself.
They say: Then why do you share them publicly? Aren’t you exposed this way?
I say: Perhaps. Still, I have nothing to hide.
They say: Come on! Did you ever think that sharing all this personal stuff could make you look weak? Give the wrong messages to the wrong people?
I say: No, I don’t think so. Why would sharing anecdotes or parables from my life make me look weak? We share them with our friends, our colleagues, people we love or fall in love with, and most of these people were perfect strangers at the beginning. We became friends, lovers, because we share our life with them, as honestly as one possible can. Those who accept us as we are stay in our life one way or another. Those who do not just leave or we don’t want them. As for messages, subliminal or not… Who cares? Can we change the way people see us, talk about us? No matter what we do, they will have their own opinions – even judgements – and they will stick to these unless they themselves change their mind. Nothing we do, or say, or write will change their perceptions of us. Even if it did, this shouldn’t be the purpose of writing, of sharing. One should write for oneself. And if I feel like sharing what I write (and believe me, there are hundreds of pages I keep to myself), I do so without thinking of the implications. I don’t care of the implications, because I know that I cannot affect them.
Do you know what would Bukowski say in reply to this?
“I feel no grief for being called something which I am not; in fact, it’s enthralling, somehow, like a good back rub.”
I write. I share. If I get a response, of whatever kind, I am happy. If I get an insult or warning, I shrug my shoulders and smile. And if I am called something which I am not, I simply enjoy the back rub.