Writers Have Talent

For those of you still with me, I first encourage you to seek psychotherapy, because you clearly have mental issues leading to serious masochism. Anyways, I think that telling this story should begin with an apology. Typically, I feel like most of my conversations should begin with one, since most of the things which empty out of my mind are uninteresting, self involved tripe which causes the intelligence of anyone unfortunate enough to be listening to plummet downwards. So, for this story, which I will hopefully keep brief, I feel I owe a significant and sincere apology to all of you. I’m sorry. I’m going to use words that aren’t really words, and add lots of tangential comments, often in nested parentheses, and do a myriad of other things which will make you hate me with all of your might if you’ve studied the right ways of writing.

I especially feel compelled because clearly I am not a writer. In fact, my life can be defined more by what I’m not than what I am. I’m not particularly successful, or intelligent, or talented, or handsome. Even with all those nots, one that stands out is that I am clearly not a writer. Writers typically have talent, and some sort of form of artistic aspirations, and the hope to add to the beauty and joy of the world. I have none of those things. I write for the most selfish reason of all – because if I don’t I think I may spiral out of control, eventually out of the atmosphere and directly into the sun. And somewhere, deep inside, I truly am hopeful that somehow this situation, and my life, will turn out okay. I’m miserable, but I do have to accept the fact that it may not be a permanent, ingrained personality trait. I don’t like the idea of fate – and the idea of being fated to be untolerably despondent is as bad as the idiots who claim that everything always turns out okay, that some sort of invisible hand is spinning the dials behind the scenes to ensure that our petty lives will somehow end up all right.

So, to be honest, I just don’t care if you get anything out of this. If you get a single chuckle, or claim to your uninterested friends that my story is some bit of life-altering magic, sprinkled out to you in your time of need – fantastic. But if I don’t get something out of it, well, I’d just as well you put the damn thing in the blender after the first page while cursing in French about the total lack of sophistication of American writers. Even though I’m not one.