I wanted to be a writer

For about a minute.

When I was still looking for that one magical thing that would give my life purpose.

I don’t really like what/how I right. I feel like my writing style is predictable.

And formal.

I’ve always been a bigger fan of “intense-carelessness”. As this is a term I’ve just made up, I’ll explain.

I love it when a book, a painting, a sculpture, a home, a friend, a stranger can at first glance appear casual, calm, and collected. When the reality is professional, intense, and frantic. The appearance of one thing, and the reality of another.

I think facades are underrated.

They are what make the day to day interesting.

Words have an incredible power about them. They can cloud reality as effectively as reveal it. They can encourage as efficiently as destroy. They can create facades as quickly as they can rip them down.

A truly great writer can manipulate how, when, and why words are used to create innumerable layers of context, each one leading to a final, yet often infinite outcome. A truly great writer creates works that exist outside of time. These works become a fixed point in reality that never waivers. A lens that the masses from across the centuries approach and view their own reality through.

A truly great writer does all of this, and to read the work, you see none of it.

It appears approachable. It appears casual. It appears collected.

But all of these aforementioned attributes are just the cause. The means by which you are trapped, and pulled into worlds and thoughts not previously considered or desired, but which you now find necessary, and a part of you.

I’ve never liked my writing because the ending is always Clear. Fixed. Attainable.

I accepted a challenge, and took the legally binding oath of a pinky swear that I would increase my frequency of bloging.

I’ve never liked my writing.