Incessantly Written Down: The Conclusion

I do get that vague feeling that this is never going to end. This writing, this life as a writer and these thoughts will not end. I get that feeling that no matter what I say, what I do, what comes my way, I'm still going to be incessantly writing it down.

Occasionally, I fantasize about the end of this. The fantasy is not a sordid one. It's like this: one day, I wake up and I never think about writing ever again. It is not a good feeling nor is it a saucy fantasy. And it is a fantasy which will forever go unfulfilled. I don't know why I'd consider it anyway. I'm going to be doing precisely this until I won't physically be able to do it anymore.

The conclusion?

They say writers write. I subscribe to that. A writer buys notebooks and tries constantly to fill them. I've got at least a dozen blank composition notebooks on my shelf waiting to be filled. I've got several smaller “memo” pads which get smaller notes and bigger ideas. I must have these empty notebooks on hand or I will not be able to sleep at night. This has gotten worse with age. And this says nothing next to that giant pile scrap paper I keep around. Then there are the pens in the jar on my desk. There is enough ink in them to fill every blank page I have in my possession currently. When it comes to pens and ink, I use a fountain pen and there is at least six notebooks of ink left in the jar. I have a constant fear of running out of pen and paper. It's stupid, I know. There will never be a lack of either of these commodities. However, if for some reason new paper and ink are not available to me, I have enough to last at least a week.

I've got to write it all down.

-Silly scenes of sylphs and sullied strawberry-mongers

-Oafs and loafs, lubbers and ogres

-Soft conversations in sheets

-Bad poetry

-Critical quips

-Novels

-Confessions

-Calls to arms

For the young writers out there, and especially the one who inspired this series: don't worry about the neurosis. Never mind the urges, you know, the ones that happen when you should be doing something you're obligated to do and all you want to do is retreat into yourself and write. Fuck them. Fuck them all, if you must retreat, do it. Go write. It's all that matters.

There are some obligations which are not to be shirked. You probably have a paying job. You gotta pay the rent, keep the lights on, and let us not forget, you gotta eat. But, you do not have to do more than your share.  I see so many of my colleagues, coworkers and friends who have stepped too far into this nonsense that is life. They have developed lifestyles or life comforts that require too much money which translates to too much time which takes away the valuable writing hours. Keep in mind with every decision you make: does this and how will this affect my writing? Gaining experience helps develop a writer. Getting indebted to the life of quiet desperation is detriment. Of course, when it comes to that, no writer will live in quiet desperation. Our desperation is loud.

Go live life.

Throw away the TV.

Limit your imprisonment to those electronic devices.

Play outside.

Feel everything. I recommend starting with soft lips and sharp teeth.

Travel.

Fall in love.

Learn about something.

Pursue education.

And above all, write it all down.

I'm not saying anything new. I've said it all before in “why I write,” “call to arms,” “ennui,” and now the “Incessantly Written Down” series.

A writer writes? Hell yeah. And it's so much more.