They say only when a man, a writer especially, realizes his mortality does he begin to choose every word of every sentence he writes as if it held the importance of his own life. Only when we see that our art is the only thing that we will be remembered by do we truly begin the purest practice of our craft. I assume it is at this point when a writer finally finds whether or not he has the talent required to be remembered for his work anyway.
I like to think I have all the things prerequisite to success as a writer: talent, discipline, the ability to learn, compassion for my fellow men…
But I can never be sure. As many times as people say, “That was a nice entry last week,” and “I know exactly what you were talking about in your last entry,” I have to wonder if I’m really making any difference at all. All a writer can really ask for, I guess, is to have his words resonate with his readers. Which is why feedback is of such immense importance to anyone practicing this craft. A letter from Maria saying, “You write beautifully” is comparable with an averted apocalypse, to me.
The problem I usually encounter is forming a clear idea of what I want to say in my writing. I often feel as though the only thing I ever write about is the lack of love in my life. Lack of love. What a cop-out. If you really look around you’re bound to discover that we are surrounded by love. Parents, friends, even common acquaintances have small reservoirs of compassion for us. Love is living.
But if that’s what’s going on in my life, I feel obligated to write about it. If I feel like shit because I don’t have a girlfriend I feel that it is my duty, as an honest observer and participant of life and, most importantly, as a writer, to convey my feelings of discontent to you, the reader. I realize that sometimes I may not do so in the correct fashion and my entries may often end up sounding just like your basic whine, but I try. And that’s all you can really ask anyone to do in life: try.