What's Wrong With Writing and Demons and Women Dancing in the Night?
Somewhere in between misery and triumph you find the truth
I see a lot of very talented writers who never find an audience. Sometimes it’s because they are mistreated. Sometimes it’s because the world is inherently unfair. Sometimes it’s because they’re cheated.
But most of the time it’s because they quit.
Throughout the years I’ve managed to endure as a writer, I’ve tried to claim power over my creations. I deluded myself into thinking that I had control over what I said. I revised my words with meticulous care. I hoped my compositions would capture some semblance of beauty.
The illusion of control. Ha!
These days, I am less inclined to polish off the edges. I’ve come to think it doesn’t matter anyway. You can’t hide the essential you. The good and the bad all come bubbling through. Rather than spend your hours hopelessly editing, it might be a better strategy to pursue a path of personal and spiritual awakening.
Siphon out the evil from your heart — easier said than done. But if you show up and get to work every day, you might become a writer along the way. That’s like aiming for the moon and hitting a low hanging branch. But even a modest success allows you to speculate upon a greater one.
Writers passing like ships in the darkness
I’ve lived many days that would rank among the best days of other people. We’re surrounded by currents, and I’m a competent sailor. The trick is not to fight. Instead, accept whatever is meant to happen.
I remember a night in Barranco with my friend Tobias from Leipzig. Tobias wrote poems and sang Bon Jovi at karaoke. There were others too, and a bunch of girls that we’d met. I remember their smiling white teeth flashing in the darkness. I remember strands of black hair caressing their dimples.
They swayed.
The interior of the bar felt like a pirate ship. I sat in a creaky chair and pretended we were at sea. I had my drinks already, so the sensation of motion swelled up within me. I succumbed to the power of the waves.
The windows opened onto a balcony. Another tourist sat suspended over the city square. He scribbled in a notebook.
“That guy thinks he’s a writer,” Tobias said with derision.
The writer stood and wandered off in the direction of the bathroom, leaving his notebook on the table. As the void of the other side of the room swallowed him up, Tobias trotted over to get the notebook to see what was so important.
He opened the cover and read the first words, “She is the night…”
Then Tobias began to laugh, and we all laughed. Tobias returned the notebook to the table. The writer returned and nodded to us with a hopeful and friendly expression. We all felt shame. Tobias bought the guy a drink and we joined his table, and he became part of our group for the rest of the evening.
We joined him in his quest to find the woman who was the night. It turned out she’d been with us the whole time.
“What the hell got into me,” Tobias said the next day. “I went over there to mock him, then we got to know him, and he was a really nice guy.”
Writers must not fall into the temptation of derision. We course corrected, it turned out fine.
Inspiration is a lie
I see far too many writers waiting to get their words right. They wait and they wait and they wait and they die without ever having experienced the joy of expulsion.
Words are toxic. You have to shake them from your mind. All the sharp little edges on those letters scratch the soft tissue of your brain. Vomit them out so that you can experience a reprieve.
Don’t live a life of constant gestation. Have many births. Every article and story and novel and poem is a child. Have many children. Populate the Earth with your creations. Leave them scattered about in distant places that look like pirate ships.
Let people see your words written on the wall of a bathroom and be inspired. “There once was a young man…” Maybe somebody caught a glimpse of him and came to think he was the night too.
The demon and his wife
On my way to get another drink, I noticed a statue in the corner of a demon with a giant phallus. The statue was black and the bar was black and the night was dark. For a moment, I couldn’t tell what I was looking at, so I stood and stared.
The snarling face didn’t stare back because the eyes were scrunched closed. I realized I was looking at a phallus at the same time I recognized a woman was smiling at me. I turned to her.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
“Apparently he doesn’t,” I replied.
“Well, maybe he’s angry because he’s all alone.”
“All dressed up and nowhere to go.”
Conversations like these are way more fun in real life.
This woman was radiant. Perhaps it was because of her light I’d been able to perceive the demon in the first place. We’d just gotten started when a man thumped me from the other side.
“Hey!” he said. “That’s my wife!”
I looked at him, I looked at her. She shrugged. I started to laugh. I don’t know why. The whole thing seemed so suddenly pathetic and I didn’t fear anything. The current told me where to go. I followed.
The husband kept up his ruse of impotent intimidation. The woman remained radiant. I kept laughing.
The frustrated demon continued to grit his teeth. I realized I’d stumbled into a perfect scene. I patted the demon on the head. He, too, endured the torment of inspiration with no hope of relief.
A demon writer, who would have thought?
Quit it, just quit it
The most basic criticism of writers I have is this: you think too hard.
Quit thinking so hard. Quit trying to plan. Quit doubting yourself. You live at the flash point of exploration, and that makes you blind to all the things you do well. Forget your anxiety and celebrate.
Write without fear.
Write without reservation.
Don’t try to hide anything or control the narrative.
Stand naked before your readers unafraid.
Remember that no matter what you do, it’s inevitable. You’re going to be exposed. That’s the whole point. The reason you’re a writer is because you want to be exposed. You want to be exposed because transparency compels you to do what’s right.
Writers fail not because they don’t have talent, but because they resist.
So, don’t resist.
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Thanks for the advice, Walter. I appreciate the way you encourage others to do their thing. I have to admit, I am a constant tweaker. No, I don't do crystal meth, I mean I read and re-read my essays, making adjustments here and there. I actually like that part of creating something readable. Finding the correct word or phrase, or discovering how to make what I've written flow in a better way, is like finding a nugget of gold in a clear mountain stream. I do fall into the trap of not writing anything unless I have a good idea of where I want to go with it, which causes me to spend too much time thinking about writing, rather than just doing it. I hope to get better at that, but we all have to find our own way, I guess.
Hi Walter, this is another super duper fantastic article and it couldn't come at a better point in my life. The other day Friday the 21st to be exact I turned 54 and for some reason, I started reflecting on my life, particularly my writing. Ever since I was a kid at 12 after reading Stephen King's Fire Starter I said I want to be a writer and be like Mr. King. But through the years and I hate to say this certain family members whom I loved dearly would I say I am living a pipe dream. Long story short it kind of added to my anxiety in a sense and I would second guess a lot of things I wrote which would wind up in the junk folder on my computer or trashcan. If I had a penny every time this happened I would be fairly wealthy I bet. Throughout my life, I would start writing then stop then come back to it. I have been doing this for as long as I can remember. However back in July, I was moving and working under a very toxic boss and toxic roommate which I wrote an article on Medium, and with my mental health and everything else my brain and body needed a break. I went out on Short Term Disability after being put on a 3-month final warning for my metrics by my toxic boss which I did get off my record working my tail off. The consequence was mental anguish hence my mini breakdown and needing a leave. During my time away from work I was writing daily hence coming to Medium and finding Substack and all these terrific things here. Once I went back to Ms. Toxic in September my writing went down. I'd write trash the material take a few days off and repeat. Thankfully I got away from her in January when I accepted a position in a different department. This department has a much nicer culture and environment I can't believe the difference it almost feels like a different company. At any rate, I am writing more but still struggle with consistency wanting my prose perfect etc, etc. I am also creating my first Substack here so I am trying to learn the ins and outs of it all. My goal is if it is even possible to make my writing a supplemental income someday with the short stories, my novel, and my Substack. I am having more consistency with my writing as my therapist put me on a new med to help with my ADHD. I am writing more but still struggle. Your post gave me hope that even though half of my life is over at 54 I can maybe still make it as a writer. Thanks again for looking out for us writers and members of my community LGQBT+. That means a lot to me, man. Thanks again. Sorry for the novel it is one of those days where the words are flowing like a river. Thanks, you rock Walter. :)