On Wednesday I had a three-hour break between my only class and my Hilltop shift from 12-2:00. I went to the coffee shop and got an iced vanilla latte, then sat down at my computer and began to write. I continued working on “Chapter 37: No Perfect Endings” in my post-apocalyptic novel Dwellers of the Night (655 pages so far). As I leaned back and sipped on my espresso, I asked myself, “Why do I write?”
Writing serves as a sort of escape hatch to slink away from the belly of the great beast of life. When life sucks, I write. It’s what I do. When I am stressed out over something, or when circumstances break my heart, I retreat into the cavern of creativity, and I get lost in the little words that I concoct as my fingertips dance upon the keyboard. I get lost in romantic tragedies, and I get lost in comedies, and I get lost in worlds where people don’t have to worry about being backstabbed, betrayed, and trampled-over. I get lost in a world where the primary concern is not how you look, where you’re going to work in a year, or how you’re going to support yourself financially. I get lost in worlds where none of that matters, where the only concern is surviving another day. It is strange: in order to escape the harsh realities of life, I delve into even harsher fantasy-realms. It makes sense, I guess: the current state-of-affairs doesn’t look so bleak compared to a world filled with zombies, a world where you have to kill your loved ones, a world where nothing makes sense anymore, and everything is so clear.
My writing has always been about victory and triumph; sadly, however, it has taken a much more… cynical… direction. This is probably because of the cynicism and skepticism that has become mine over the past several years, a cynicism and skepticism borne out of great suffering, shattered hopes and dreams, and the testimony of the apparent futility of relationships. In Dwellers of the Night, for example, there is no such thing as a happy ending. One of the main themes is about a character trying to restart his life, but the main point is that you can’t restart your life; there is no “starting over.” You have what you have, and you have to work with it as best you can. Tragedies strike, and they will tear into you, and they will impregnate you with a whole host of emotions that will ride upon your shoulders till the day you die. Of course, that’s only one theme in the book—Dwellers of the Night is fascinating because it is composed of so many interwoven stories as well as interwoven themes—but the book overall advances a somewhat nihilistic outlook on the world (an outlook, I must confess, that I do not hold, ultimately, hold).
Writing serves as a sort of escape hatch to slink away from the belly of the great beast of life. When life sucks, I write. It’s what I do. When I am stressed out over something, or when circumstances break my heart, I retreat into the cavern of creativity, and I get lost in the little words that I concoct as my fingertips dance upon the keyboard. I get lost in romantic tragedies, and I get lost in comedies, and I get lost in worlds where people don’t have to worry about being backstabbed, betrayed, and trampled-over. I get lost in a world where the primary concern is not how you look, where you’re going to work in a year, or how you’re going to support yourself financially. I get lost in worlds where none of that matters, where the only concern is surviving another day. It is strange: in order to escape the harsh realities of life, I delve into even harsher fantasy-realms. It makes sense, I guess: the current state-of-affairs doesn’t look so bleak compared to a world filled with zombies, a world where you have to kill your loved ones, a world where nothing makes sense anymore, and everything is so clear.
My writing has always been about victory and triumph; sadly, however, it has taken a much more… cynical… direction. This is probably because of the cynicism and skepticism that has become mine over the past several years, a cynicism and skepticism borne out of great suffering, shattered hopes and dreams, and the testimony of the apparent futility of relationships. In Dwellers of the Night, for example, there is no such thing as a happy ending. One of the main themes is about a character trying to restart his life, but the main point is that you can’t restart your life; there is no “starting over.” You have what you have, and you have to work with it as best you can. Tragedies strike, and they will tear into you, and they will impregnate you with a whole host of emotions that will ride upon your shoulders till the day you die. Of course, that’s only one theme in the book—Dwellers of the Night is fascinating because it is composed of so many interwoven stories as well as interwoven themes—but the book overall advances a somewhat nihilistic outlook on the world (an outlook, I must confess, that I do not hold, ultimately, hold).
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