Given the litany I just threw out in the post before this one, this title should make it pretty clear why I like writing so much. Even though I’m not necessarily “good” at it. Sure I have my moments, I have a little natural talent, and most of the time I know how to sell it, help people find it, create enticing little trails to it. That’s true of anything really and fiction is, well, even free stuff is tricky, but it’s something I’m good at. Anyways, all that taken into account I am still an amateur at writing fiction. And even though that’s roughly how I would describe my aptitude… I still look at it as a sort of potential salvation. A way to save myself from going ape shit insane from a regular life.
The one I’ve got right now, the one odds say I’ll still have when I’m thirty or forty.
It goes beyond that though, if I actually think on it. It’s not just my art, it’s all art that I’ve ever liked, appreciated, devoured. I love it because it’s not the same as the bullshit mathematical approach to life the majority of people submit to. It doesn’t always have any real reason except for singular needs, fantasies, obsessions. It’s simple, and it doesn’t always (if ever) have a reason for being made beyond unpredictable, chaotic human imagination. Imagination blended with desire, with a need to express it all in some form. Art appeals to me so strongly because it’s not a way to figure out how to juggle 98% of a life you hate so you can have 2% of it for yourself to enjoy.
It appeals to me because it’s not a way to escape a life like that either.
Art is, in essence, a way to conquer the average life.
A way to magnify that 2% until it eclipses the duller, passionless elements.