I wasted years praying not to god but to this illusion of meaning. later you learn it isn’t there but long habit has made that retreat into the irrational belief not just custom, but a comfort.
god, you realize, was a puppet to bully, or like all the extrinsic forces, something someone to blame.
belief was never in cross-eyed redemption for the sake of sins against others but a self-serving phantasmagoria in which null time is redeemed by a sudden success. The real sin I want alleviated is being wrong, and wasting an incredible amount of time in being wrong.
I went out seeking content not wanting to simply be a writer without life, without things to say. But what you find in scouting out is that the world is not where you left it. Ideas you passionately defended turn out to be terribly, hideously wrong and the voraciousness with which you fought the hunger of the young dumb, nothing more.
it was never god to which I prayed but a misplaced saint. A hole in the wall into which I keep push pushing my wants.
But I have known this before and the knowledge has not set me free from the repetitive fantasing, into the falling. I don’t know how to solve this, how to come out on the other side.
I want to stop. I want to break free. (and yes, you should here that in Freddie Mecury’s voice).
What do I think?
I think there will not be freedom without progress. I never stopped wanting to love & be loved, but I changed how I approached it and what I wanted love to mean. I never wanted to stop being thin, but I did come to understand that thinness both was and was not everything I thought it would be, and from there, could have a realistic relationship with my body.
My writing is still not what I want it to be. And in all honesty, the time line of making progress looks like ten years of hard labor, not six months of dashing off a few pieces that get accepted for publication so that I ca have bragging rights.
What is it you want to write? I don’t know–no, no I do: the brutal honesty but head turning beauty of angela carter’s essays, entertaining but illuminating, investigative like Racoona Sheldon/James Tiptree, Octavia Butler, Ursula le Guin. Immersive, like VanderMeer.
And something more besides. The poetic honesty in storytelling like Toni Morrison.
The unbound silliness in Adventure Time. The worldbuilding and emotional gravity of Carla Speed McNeil. The list of admiration goes on and one.
Can you really decide a thing like style? VanderMeer and Carter’s decadence are quite distinct. Both styles are far from the others.
And could you write something truly great, something that pulled elements you admire from these writers, who would be the audience? Who would care?
The better question might be: are you strong enough to be nobody? Will you create what will never be read simply because you want it to exist?
And that too seems self devious: because can you actually write it at all? Admiring is not the same as imitation. Could you, would you imitate for the sake of learning? Ca you give yourself the century you need just to walk on two feet?(that from Beauty and the Beast)