“It has always seemed strange to me…the things we admire in men, kindness and generosity, openness, honesty, understanding and feeling, are the concomitants of failure in our system. And those traits we detest, sharpness, greed, acquisitiveness, meanness, egotism and self-interest, are the traits of success. And while men admire the quality of the first they love the produce of the second.” – John Steinbeck, Cannery Row

entry – neatness?

I dislike the idea of neatness when writing. Writing should not be neat, it should not fit so nicely between the invisible lines on a computer. It is messy and aggressive, saturated with emotion. Typing on a computer, back-spacing, deleting– it diminishes all of that. What to do. My integrity is not compromised too much by taking this shortcut. Although, there is something to say for a clear thought-process. All I do is vomit words on a whim. Is there true love without Eros? There. Writing gets the thoughts flowing like this.

Moreover, I am too much of a control freak–concerning what I write, what I say. Everything has to go through some sort of bizarre filter that churns out a comment tailored to whoever I’m speaking to. Saul Bellow was right when he announced that he believed “sincerity impossible,” in an interview. Fundamentally, these carefully curated expressions arise from fear of being prosaic, fear of being boring. When you treasure your intelligence, build your identity around your brain, you’re terrified of losing a reputation. It’s the same with being popular for looks. Everybody maintains their image. Tale as old as time. It’s so frustrating to want to write when you feel like everything has been written. Perhaps that’s why we do it. Tantalized by the possibility of abstract ‘newness,’ the budding author seeks new and exciting pastimes, more and more radical combinations of words, disciplines, sentences, sentence fragments. There’s a lot of horrible stuff in the world. Horrible horrible things. Art redeems, but only up to a point. Art is not the only salvation. Artists always have a keen intuition and sense for the “what ifs” in life; to them everything is a possibility. And this can be damaging because the whatifs are given real credit, they are endowed with credibility, because the artist either cannot or does not wish to differentiate between what is distantly possible and what is immediately and likely so. Therefore, they are easily disappointed, easily led on. The robust realists have no false notions, the whatifs are carefully kept in a cupboard.

When you write, you have to feel very deeply. Your dialogue between your characters must fit within the realm of things you would say yourself, discussions you would have yourself. I am not that clever traditionally but I am very philosophically aware of the world. Maybe Hobbes is right. Maybe it is because I have lived my life by the luxury of leisure; I have had all the time in the world to think of these things, brood upon them. But it still holds that I feel so strongly, ‘love so intensely,’ and I must find an outlet for it.