The Fargo Kantrowitz'z Literary Campsite

I said that I hate being a writer. I guess I do, but if I wasn’t I guess I would hate the alternative. Being a writer is such a necessity for someone like me that I have the luxury of saying that I hate being a writer. It’s just that when you need to write the most you feel the least graceful. Every word is a glob spit out on the page for you to add to continually. Gracefulness, the ever present aim of writers, is a result of angst, but angst ain’t graceful. Angst is when life sucks, when it seems that just when you get over one thing another starts and you’re tired. You know that no more little tricks are going to get you through. Everything has failed. All your dirty deeds, your sellouts, your utter failures have produced a loser and now you figure that you have to write past them, exorcise them, make them less real. Well, it works most of the time, but you still don’t feel graceful, blissful, the way that you thought that you would feel all of the time when you decided that you finally wanted to become a writer. You become so self absorbed that nothing you say really matters in the way that you thought what you would say would ultimately matter. Your words are dross, but you keep going because you feel that if you don’t keep going then you will go crazy some way and you don’t want that. And you feel that you are totally discovered, found out, by everybody reading you. They all know that you are just fiddling a tune, whacking off, but you don’t ever tell them that and you hope that they are all stupid, that they believe you, that they believe that you have something to say. But you don’t. You’re just trying to get the damned angst out of your body and you’re using the idea of a reader to give you a reason to attempt it at all. But they all know. Everybody knows when they are being used.