So, I heard that you write.

Well, here’s something to read.

Perhaps the greatest downfall, or its most ubiquitous marvel is that practically anything counts as writing. Whether there is some meaning behind it all, whether the interpretations are matching to that of the writers, whether it could be any better or whether Shakespeare was real or not are as pertinent to me as kangaroo meat for a vegan, especially when I’m writing. As Sheryl Strayed wrote “I know it’s hard to write, darling. But it’s harder not to” she probably was referring to her ‘second beating heart’ about the book that was in her which took over 35 years to come out. Now, she had it in her so she could, which clearly does not mean that if there’s vomit within you that is ages old, it has to come out and greet my eyes as literature. I’ve read and written enough of it myself to know the difference. Of course I have taken into consideration the subjectivity of perception when I comment on the comparative degrees of literature, what do I look like, your average newspaper critic? But that’s not what I’m really getting at. For me, it seems strange that as time is passing by, there is going to be lesser and lesser literature left to preserve. What has been happening so far is through every bloody circle around the Sun, there’s been good writing and bad writing from our planet but as the course of time continues, the former seems to be less profound. Literature is one of history’s favourites, she never seems to forget it yet as I speak so highly of all that has been written before me, I worry in vain as, hopefully not even in the farthest future, literature will be far different from what History used to know and she will soon forget it too. So here’s what I’m really getting at, if you want to write then nobody should stop you but if you think you really can, make sure it’s something worth remembering. That is what writers have always, knowingly, or not, been doing.

 

A lot of what is associated with writing is misunderstood, starting with how people radically admit it to be easy whilst others call it hard. But something that one can be certain of is that a writer is no ordinary Human. Here’s the simplest way (coincidentally and utterly in my favour, the way I realised it too) I’m going to put it across. In a novel, not only will you find that every choice made by every character, every moral decision, every thought that goes through their minds are those of the authors but also how out of the innumerable other ways, the author chose only those. Two things should stand out apparent to the sane minds by now, firstly that the unbearable trouble of choice as well as the unimaginable (ironically) moral compasses for every element in every novel, are set upon an author as he puts pen onto paper. Considering the pertinence of just these two aspects should be, well, nothing more than a glimpse of the essential cruelties that precede the fully ripened fruit that is writing.

 

Now, I’m not saying that unless you torment yourself with self-doubt and drown in the depths of your soul for inspiration should you write, clearly you know none of that. But keep in mind that every time you write something, it falls under the same mantle as the works of those you worship and despite there being no necessity that they should be of the same degree, you must, at least try, to keep getting better. If otherwise, do not write. Express yourself, I’m not stopping instead imploring upon you to do so; but not in ways that clearly do not inherently sail out of you. Far too many have drowned in the sea that needs a sailor’s soul to stay afloat; and little by little, countless bodies have crammed up in vain at the bottom of my beloved sea. If, by now, you still haven’t got the faintest idea of what I’m talking about, just know that the oar I use and the winds under my sail are not for you mate.

 

Falsely yours,

The Skookum.

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