Why does one write? What is the real purpose of this love of a craft where it is nearly impossible to be published and known? What is the fascination with this seemingly endless set of failures that allures me to continue to try over and over? Maybe I am just a gluten for punishment in the fact that I continue to submit pieces just to be passed up over and over in the form of a rejection slip. I realize that this is a blog and anyone can create one these days so being published here is really no big fucking deal but it is still the only venue I have to get my writing out there for others to see so in essence I am stuck. I have over the past twenty-four years tried over and over to write an entire novel and I have had little to no success in this venture so I have switched to essay’s and short fiction. The trick is after all this time is to never give up hope that someday my timing will be perfect and I will be able to get into a literary journal or maybe even The New Yorker but that is one serious pipe dream.
The reason I write is to of course entertain people but there is more to it and that underlying cause is an obsession to be something in this life of mine. I have since young childhood felt like a total failure and maybe if I can become a published writer those feelings of being an unsuccessful person will dissipate a little. I realize that this is just another feeble attempt at finding something outside myself to fix what is wrong inside but at the same time it is totally different. This is a lifelong dream, a desire and want that after over half my life I have yet to achieve so that has to count for something doesn’t it? Right now I just don’t know if this is yet another pipe dream or if it can become something real and tangible.
I have been told many times over that my writing is amazing or incredible but this all comes from people that know me and are not in anyway connected to publishing so it’s appreciated yes but I need a publisher to say that. I am not saying I do not enjoy hearing what my friends and family think of my writing I do but that in and of its self will not get me to my goal of published. I sit here so often thinking of something to write an essay about or a short story culling from the often strange and bizarre life that I have lived but in the end I see nothing worth writing about after I stopped being homeless in 1999. Before I got off the streets of America my life was one adventure after another now it is dross, vapid and rather a boring.
I have over the past four or so years attempted to write my own little memoir and I always get stalled around April, 1999 when Columbine happened here in Denver. This tragedy occurred just a few days after I got my first apartment and from that point on my life really became a drag. Before this time I had a wonderful yet scary five years of wondering the roads of this grand country looking for a place to fit in; this was the exciting part of my life the rest is really meh to be honest. This memoir is digital in about forty pages, then a seventeen page typed on a typewriter mess and again digital. I want to write this I just have no idea how to tackle to boring parts and make them have some suspense so to speak. The problem being I had a place to live so all the drama of not knowing where I was gonna sleep or eat next is long gone so dull really encompasses the last twelve plus years of my life.
I think this is something that every writer encounters at one time or another so maybe I need to make this story more fictional then factual ala Kerouac. But this all leads back to why I write: to entertain people and to express myself in a way that I know I am good at. Maybe one day I will get published, maybe one day I will die before I am but I know this for certain I will never stop trying until I am no longer able to breathe.