I once aspired to be a writer. It's true. I had these grandiose visions
of writing the Great American Novel...or something like that. It
probably wouldn't have been a novel. But that begs the question: why
write? I mean, I used to think I had something to say. Typically, I
wrote when I had an axe to grind. News flash: nobody wants to read that
stuff. On the other hand, what else do I have to say? What would be my
motivation for writing?
You know, I'm not sure what I have to say. I've wondered if I don't need
to try my hand at fiction...perhaps short stories. I love the works of O
Henry and Poe (I know...complete opposites...I'm schizo like that). But
there again, why write? I have trouble writing without purpose. I think
it's that strong â€œChristianâ€? ideal I've had instilled in me; you know,
the concept of an agenda-oriented life. Everything I say and do must
have a point, a message. I have to be trying to communicate something.
There is no such thing as art for art's sake. It has to have a message
behind it...or inside of it...or hidden. Or something.
But then I wonder, is it possible to write without a message. Doesn't
everything one composes have an element of himself in it? When I write,
how can I not say what I want to say?
So, I once aspired to be a writer. For now, I think I'll just write.