I can't seem to write - well, not anything of import. Unlike the senseless drivel seen here (why, you ask, do I write it and post it if I believe it to be drivel? The semi-public nature of this blog - like a dark corner of fenced off alley, it's only seen by people who have become horribly lost, or those blessed fools who seek out the cob-web encrusted caves, seeking the paintings of long-lost locals, trying to find some sign of life - forces me to take a much closer look at my writing, and critique it thusly.)
It's not that I don't have any ideas - I do, I do.
It's not that I don't think I can write - I humbly believe that I have a modicum of talent in that regard - I am no Faulkner, but I think I can out-do a Dan Brown... dot dot dot.
I think it's that I've lost my way. I used to write the stories I wanted to read, write songs I wanted to hear, and poems I wanted to feel. The outside world did not enter into it, and what I created was all the more beautiful for it. Now, I find myself trying to write with a purpose, and, much to my former English teachers' delight, a sense of my audience, such as they are.
So, the stories I have burning in my head - all a bit dark with a slight glimmer of hope - get stuffed away, while I try to write something for a someone that will get me somewhere. But it doesn't - it never does.
The artist - and I loathe to call myself that, having known some truly great ones - has only a duty to be true to himself. It's the world's job to try to make sense of creation - the creator just has to create.
And so that's what I'm going to try to do. Think of it as the Andy Kaufman (and, for that matter, the Charlie Kaufman as well) philosophy of writing.
Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.
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