Even Answers Wear Out

I wonder sometimes if I’ll ever get around to writing a book, or making money off of writing. Probably. I don’t like that answer though. Too much uncertainty. It bothers me because, for fuck’s sake, this is one of the precious few things I have any passion for. I have to keep it at arm’s length (I always surge in viewership, in reach, in engagement when I do), because if I look at it as a creation, as something separate from myself, I seem to create a better product.

That doesn’t exactly make sense in terms of… well, following the heart, but if it’s what brings me alive and that’s a result getting perspective to have, then hell, why not go by it? I like to think I’m nothing if not a pragmatist. So if creating some imaginary distance between myself and my writing, or between my writing and the response it gets from people, helps realize some of the ambition I have, who am I to argue?

It doesn’t make sense to me though, that practically all I have as a way of maybe, just maybe making an impact on the world, is something I don’t know I’ll succeed with. And hell, even that is up in the air. Am I uncertain? Or just afraid of being certain? It could very easily be the latter because frankly, very few of us know how great we are. What we’re capable of is beyond what words can hope to describe. See, the thing is…

We’re capable of anything.

Any-fucking-thing you or I truly want, we can have.

What the magic ingredient is that makes it happen consistently, that gives a person the strength to achieve that “anything” over and over again reliably, I can only guess at. I think I have an answer and for a while it works, it satisfies me, but the nature of being human means the satisfaction is only temporary. The answer, be it confidence, sitting down and churning out words, or even keeping my writing at arm’s length… whatever it is at a given time, eventually it gets stale.

Boring. Known.

The beauty of writing, of course, is that there’s always room for exploration, for something new, or for something new to pop out of an old method, like right now. At this particular moment, for this particular post, I’m free writing. It won’t be edited much before I post it either, because I don’t think it’s needed. Old method or not though, as I write this I feel like I’m making some progress in figuring out this bitch of a puzzle. Not much, but some.

And even that might be imagined, but it’s one of the things that keep me coming back. It’s a coping mechanism, a way of somehow dealing with life, and not always in the same way.

Sometimes it’s through fiction, through stories that act as escapes, or through making shit up just because I think it would be a cool story to read, a story I wish one of my favorite authors would write themselves so I could delve in as a reader rather than a writer. Other times, it’s putting my opinion on this thing or that into words. And, in lieu of any actual ideas or subject matter…

There’s always free writing.

The point I’m getting at is, every answer wears out eventually.

Even when they’re right, completely spot on, they get stagnant over time. Too familiar. The only thing to do, it seems, is to look for another once the latest one has been used up.

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