Roses from Bullshit
Long ago, someone started a con that made readers believe writing comes from a place of knowledge, as if a writer were a scribe to some preexisting clarity. No. Hell no. Most writers are frauds. We are ignorant and learning out-loud. The written piece is the useful by-product of figuring things out, like how churning butter makes buttermilk. More writing comes from doubt than expertise.
In all other corners of creativity, we acknowledge a rose can grow from a pile of bullshit. The best song is better than whatever dumb ass wrote it. Still, writing is the only remaining art where we predictably expect to find wisdom about life. This is odd, because wisdom should come from reputable sources, but writers have proven themselves to be an unreliable lot. They certainly don’t suggest the path to the good life by example. Yet, the insight is still there. It is a trap to believe good writing comes from lived wisdom. We are all amateur humans.
To be fair, writing takes a special toll, because to do it well, you must be naked. You are bare with honesty. Worse yet, a writer must poke and puncture themselves to be specific. Even great writing can be humiliation with laser-precision for its author.
Weirdly, most people who write say other people should write, too. Share in the discomfort! Take part in our doubting nature! And, in spite of fighting all these issues myself for the past year, I want to pick up the pen again. There goes that claim to wisdom.
It’s September, and I haven’t written anything in 2012. Last year, I wrote a book. What kind of person thinks they have more than a hundred pages of insight or ideas in them? So, I’ll aim for a few simple, honest paragraphs, and hope for roses from bullshit.