I’ve noticed that some people believe that writing well means squeezing the life out of artistic license and doing with language what you please (see, I referred to “you” instead of saying “one pleases”)! It means stripping things down to their core and shoving that shit (profanity) into the face of the reader and screaming, “HERE. YOU SEE THIS? THIS IS ME!! THIS IS WHAT I’M MADE OF.” I can’t handle even thinking of doing something so coarse and vulgar and obvious as that with something as intricate and precious as language. Shouldn’t we treat our language like it deserves, and use every available convention and word we can to express ourselves? Since when did simplicity become so blasted valuable?!
why should i tell you what makes me me and use the run on sentences that occur in my head instead of molding them and crafting them and changing them and maybe even censoring them as i transfer them on to the paper one at a time and carefully so that you not only understand me but RESPECT me
That up there took SO much willpower to even write without inserting a comma or a period, or capitalizing those “i”s.
But hey… it felt pretty good.
so whats good writing is it putting my soul on paper bare naked for you to glance quickly at without having to interpret it at all or is it masking the truths within myself with artsy words and complex sentence structure so that you have to peel away at all my CRAP just to get a sneak peek at what makes me me?
(I couldn’t bear writing that without a question mark.)
Maybe it’s one and maybe it’s both. It could very well be both. There’s no reason why those two things can’t occur together.
i could tell you right now that i cry sometimes when we hang up because i love you that much and that i actively try to smell you around me and ive never never never felt as worthy of living as i do when you look right at me or that i hate you when you say we’re going to talk and then we don’t and i don’t trust a single word you say and i don’t understand why our friendship doesnt work and i wish i was the one to do it and i stare at my moms picture and i cry cry cry because she doesnt know where i went to college or how im not paying any money to even go here and i feel like you hate me and you hurt me every day even if we dont talk and our whole family knows you hate me and it makes everything tense and you dont even see it and i hate to get all mushy on you but you know that i always go to sleep grateful that were besties and i dont care if that term is so disgustingly girly its still accurate and i only feel pretty when my hair is straight because of what you said in seventh grade and how i used to wish i was white with such a passion that i imagined killing myself in class and how when you kiss my skin you make me feel absolutely gorgeous and i could tell you that im scared of the day i become an orphan and scared my dads gonna die and im nervous that im going to fall behind in all my shit at college because of my habits and i could tell you that im scared to play with fire really really scared and its a huge possibility that ill regret this in a couple years
I could tell you all that. Just like that. Does it make it less interesting because I didn’t backspace once? Because I told you all that without inserting a metaphor or punctuation or telling you how these things could affect you, or the world, or teaching you a valuable fucking lesson?
Sometimes, I’m just writing. Sometimes, I don’t give a shit if you learn one fucking thing from reading my stuff. But I still want you to read it. Is that wrong or selfish? Is it wishful to think that you would still be interested in what I have to say if it has no worldly significance, or isn’t written all pretty-like?
That’s the mystery I guess I’m trying to solve through writing. Maybe there’s no right answer. Bare naked truth can be just as effective as a truth masked by beautiful, carefully crafted lies. That’s just what makes art so muthafuckin’ amazing.
til latah suckas sayonara