Writing isn’t an obedient art. Think of it as the class clown sitting in the back row of every class.
Some will argue and tell you it requires discipline and organization. But in truth, all it takes is a bit of chaos.
That’s all there is to it.
It takes folly, madness and sheer guts.
It’s a brave writer’s secret to fool people into thinking he commits to writing hours. That he actually conforms to a writing schedule. What most don’t know is that writers write all the time – at lunch while they’re eating, in class during lectures and even on the job.
They fool others into thinking they abide by the same rules of life as them, that they’re actually blending in and taking part in whatever activity or routine happening in their circle.
But the truth is they’re scanning, reflecting, writing.
They’re misbehaving and mischievously playing everyone else to fall into their story. Because at the end of the day, they’re all pawns in the writer’s mind. They’re all traces of memories his mind has captured during a certain time and is about to register on paper. It’s the way he’ll register those thoughts that remains exclusive to him.
Writers bend facts and memories and events to their will. They bend time and space and cross the limits of reason. That’s why a prick or an asshole has a far better chance at making it as a writer than an academic or a nobleman’s son: they’re far grittier, rawer, bolder and more daring. The spineless have no space to create – they are busy trying to find their way out of the labyrinth of conformity.
The writer is always one step ahead: he has already freed himself from measly distractions such as rules and stipulations and is wandering in his own world. A world few are granted access to and even fewer can navigate through.
You need to misbehave to be a writer. You need to be an animal, a firecracker, a pest in a world of obedient men. Among the ordinary hopefuls you are the twisted, the demented, the insane, the chaotic. You are the mess at the center of a beautifully crafted painting.
You raise hell and release demons and gargoyles to raid the earth. You bring fire to the land and plague the restless oceans with storms and thunder.
Whenever you’re out on a date with a pretty girl, you lean under the table to pass her a small piece of paper with a poem you wrote to her instead of grabbing her thighs. Then when she’s done reading it you grab her thighs and feel their warmth.
Because at the end of the day, that’s what you’re coming back home to write about. You don’t write about spaceships or aliens or detectives trying to solve mystery cases – you write about life.
You write about drinking 3 bottles of stale vodka and then throwing up all over your bathtub.
You write about that girl you had dinner with who wanted to split the bill, the way the edges of her hair slightly curled in the small breeze blowing and the way she walked in front of you like a glorious goddess. You write about kissing her and fucking her until you’re both worn out and the sun rises over your intertwined bodies lying bare in bed.
You write about the dirty sheets that still carry her scent, the perfume she wore every time she came over to see you.
You write about going to the beach alone because you found hanging with other people both insupportable and unnerving. You write about walking up to the ocean and speaking to it. You write about writing an entire poem about the sea and the sound of its furious waves.
You write about coming close to paying your month’s rent but failing and receiving a clearance notice from your landlord. You write about fucking your landlord’s wife.
You write about anything and everything real to you – because writing about anything else isn’t fiction: it’s absurd.
It’s absurd to run away from your emotions and feelings and thoughts and memories and ambitions and pains. It’s absurd to treat them like places you’ve walked past and thought of never crossing again. It’s absurd to think they’ll go away or fade into darkness on their own.
Just like it’s absurd to cringe whenever you think about writing or convince yourself it’s the only thing out there for you. Many have kept up formidably with the fast-paced evolvement of society and technology and life but few have retained emotion. Few have preserved the touch of a poet or the vision of a writer.
And that is why writers are landmarks, free birds floating above everything else but never landing in a cage. They are the hot property of this world – unbound and limitless. Whatever moves or breathes or possesses a distinctive shape or smell or sound is subject to the written word. But only the misbehaving writer will dare cross the line – no matter how fine or thick – and draw the bridge between what he sees and what is. No force is too strong to hold him back, be it political, religious, racial, universal, natural, psychological or cosmic – he is the true master of life, the greatest architect there is and the brilliant painter wielding the brush.
We are part of a great scheme drawn by writers of old, and they now wait for us at the crossroads for the passing of the torch. Without such continuity how does man expect to follow the great circle of life? How does he expect to survive natural disasters and world wars and plagues and carnages and infestations?
Only the writer knows. And if he’s any good, he’ll drown his knowledge in the bottle and let it roll at his feet.