Writing is a lonely business. This is not a cry for help, more of a statement of fact. It consists mainly of sitting alone punching a keyboard or scribbling in a notebook, punctuated with long, empty pauses as you stare at what you’ve set down. If you want to write, you should enjoy your own company or at the very least, be able to tolerate it.
I know full well that writing about writing is astoundingly self-indulgent, but if you will, please indulge me. This is not so much about writing as it is about being alone. Lately, I’ve felt detached from the world and if I’m being honest, a big chunk of that is on me.
This is in part because of my employment or lack there of. When you have limited resources, you tend to stay at home more. I’ve been fortunate that I have friends who are willing to buy me a drink or a meal. While I’m grateful that I have these people in my life, I also am aware that I’ve become an unnecessary expense to those whom I know and I’m coming to believe that I’m not worth the cost.
While I’ve tried, unsuccessfully as of this writing, to reacquire gainful employment, truthfully I’m not sure I’m qualified to do anything. The only thing I think I’m really good at is writing but that might not be true. Everyone who writes thinks that they have some talent at it. If you don’t, it would be a waste of time. You need that unlikely mix of arrogance and self–loathing that all writers possess. Well, maybe it’s just me.
So having all this alone time you might think that I’m getting a lot of writing done. Yes and no. I do write a haiku everyday which I post on twitter. They are all about D&D, so it’s a niche audience, perhaps a sub-niche. I am also working on several short stories and a larger project that I’m not ready to discuss. There are also sentences and paragraphs, lets call them inspirational crumbs that I jot down while they are still fresh in my mind. Does that sound like a lot? I suspect it does not.
I write in this blog to make myself write. Sometimes it’s just some absurd stuff that occurs to me. While this post belies what I’m about to say, but I am happiest when writing something funny. This is not me at my happiest, in case that was in any doubt.
Of course, I’m rambling, jumping from one topic to another. I’m lonely. I’m a burden to those I know. I don’t know if I have talent and I’m clearly not writing enough. Does this add up to anything? Hell if I know. I feel as though I’m wandering through the dark looking for a door that may or may not exist. While that may seem bleak, I’ll just keep roaming because the alternative is worse.
The Writings of Leo Byrne Jenicek 