THE WRITER
by Jacob Rourke
Dedicated to nobody.
CHAPTER 1
A failed man is a success at many things.
For one, I am quite successful at abandoning everybody who got close to me. I knew that if I was to do whatever it is I am doing, I am to have no other attachments. I am almost home free with this one.
I am still living with the family who brought me up; my birth family that is (although I feel like an orphan). My mother drives me up the wall. My father is afraid to tell me what is really on his mind (and vice versa) so we communicate mostly through mother. My older sister is only a few years older than me but she has as much youthful spirit and life in her as a 99 year old widow. Most of their happiness is fake and weak.
I do still have hope for my younger sister. Who knows how she might turn out considering she’s surrounded, like all of us, by a bunch of idiots. People are getting fatter and dumber by the second. But she does have a lot of life in her and I really think she’s already more intelligent than most people.
I return here again and again. I have left many times and even been able to stay away for almost 2 years at a time. But somehow I always return to the nest. I return not because of them but because it is the easiest option.
Actually, it’s usually because I run out of money. They don’t have the heart to charge me for staying here although I have a feeling they would like to. I would. Instead, I make money by working outside in the yard where something is always being renovated and my father pays me 10€/hour which is better than I could get anywhere else considering the work I do and how horrible I am as a worker. There’s a fine line between generosity and stupidity. In this case, I think it’s more pity that they feel for me.
Sometimes I can’t stand being here. Sometimes I want to be somewhere I can just exist without having to be anybody, do anything, talk to anyone or know anyone.
I want to pursue writing and give my soul to it. I have already given up my other passion or what I thought was my passion (music) and have also said goodbye to the love of my life or who I thought was the love of my life. I did this because I am convinced that they were a threat to my ambitions as a writer. Perhaps I’m wrong.
The ‘being a writer’ thing is quite a recent revelation. After smelling it, peeking at it, touching it for the last few years, I’ve only been chewing it around in my mouth properly for a few days. Today I finally swallowed.
Right now (as I am writing this) I am putting it down in cement and taking the silent vow which I believe all true writers take, whether they know it or not:
The decision that I am a writer. I was born a writer and I will die a writer.
But I am still a beginner. I think it will take at least 10 years to learn the ropes properly. I also hope to get some more life behind these eyes in that time. A few scars wouldn’t hurt either.
Now to become a published author is a different story. I haven’t signed up for that yet. I suppose it would be nice but to tell you the truth, it is not my concern at the present moment.
I am currently reading Tropics of Capricorn by Henry Miller where he writes: “You have to be wiped out as a human being in order to be born again an individual.”
That is exactly what I have been doing.
All along.
CHAPTER 2
I used to be like a sponge. I’d suck in everything whether it’s information, inspiration, kindness, hatred, lust, sorrow, suffering. I’d take it in from all directions. I’d watch documentaries on different subjects. I’d read books of fiction, non-fiction, poetry, classic literature, modern bestsellers. I’d listen to classical music, old blues stuff, pop music, country, 80s speed metal. I’d watch movies from all the decades, all the blockbusters, all the indie films, all the crap, all the stuff that wasn’t supposed to be crap but which I thought was. And of course the people I associated myself with thinking they were my ‘friends’ and acquaintances I’d met while traveling, working, drinking. I never much liked newspapers, magazines or watching television because I knew that they were for the people who wanted to be told how to think.
But little by little I noticed that I had to force it all down. When you got shit coming in through your ears; your nostrils; your mouth; your skin pores; your eyes; you start to become full of shit yourself. To release the shit you have to squeeze it out through your little asshole or breathe out with your lungs, otherwise it gets stuck inside and you die from an overdose of shit.
Most people are full of shit. They’ve been sucked into a pile of shit like it was quicksand. Most will never get out. They’ll drown in shit. Then they are buried with a bunch of other shit in a place where their full-of-shit family and friends go stare at a piece of rock that is 6 feet above them.
I genuinely question the sanity of the human race quite often. I haven’t figured out whether I’m insane or they are. They being everybody else. Either way, I’m different. There’s something wrong with either me or them.
I’m certain that there’s people like me out there. The only ones I know however, are through books & movies. Sometimes the characters are real, sometimes fake and imagined. There can be more reality in a good fictional story or character than real life since most people are pretending to be ‘something’. Ultimately, it’s the authors of the books that I identify the most. To closest to them are film directors. I respect actors although their ability to lie would cause mistrust in them if I was ever to know one. Musicians are mostly a bunch of assholes and hypocrites. They’re the worst. I just don’t like them. Of course there are a few exceptions. Two that I can think of.
I like writing because it is such a private affair. You don’t have a “band” that writes a book. It doesn’t work like that. Writers are lonely. You have to be painfully lonely, so painful that it starts to feel good. Like pushing a bruise with your thumb. It’s a masochistic sort of loneliness. When it is taken away, you start to crave it. You just want to be alone and write.
Writing is also less reliant on motor-skills and technology. All you need is some paper and a pen. Or a computer/typewriter. When you find the letters or know how to twist and turn the pen in the right way, you’re all set. Unlike piano playing, guitar playing or singing, no practicing is necessary nor exercises needed to be done. Nothing to be maintained. Just pure inspiration. More energy is spent on the actual essence and less on the mechanical aspect. Writing is not a performance. It is simply turning black and white into a world of rainbows.
Some writers like to escape into a magical world. Some like to portray the tragedy and the beauty of everyday life. The best writers pull you into their world. They make the pages come alive, giving breath to a lifeless object. Something is born out of nothing. Writers open a door into their own minds and welcome those who wish to enter.
Well, enough about writing for now. It’s time to get into all the other juicy stuff. The stuff I have been doing for the last 27 years which is my current age. The stuff that shapes a man like me.
The fucking. The fighting. The drinking, The loving. The hating. The running. The hiding. The seeking. And the pain, sorrow, beauty, ecstasy, joy and awe that they give birth to. And also the emptiness that can be left in the soul when these things are lacking.
In other words, all the stuff that I haven’t given up on. Yet.
It’s time to open the doors of my mind.
Welcome.