There are so many quotes out in the world.
There really is.
Some of them catch me by surprise and make me grin. This quote, by Bukowski, is one such quote. I want to make a giant poster in my room and have it hanging there, right over my computer, because I am doing what I love. I’m writing. Perhaps today isn’t a haiku or tanka (you all seem to adore that more than these random things), but I’m still writing in some way or form.
We all want to find the thing we love. I don’t think many think to themselves after they find it, “I want this thing I love so much to kill me.” I can’t say I ever thought that myself, but I understand the meaning behind it. It’s an interesting phrase, certainly. One I like, one that makes sense. Somewhat. It actually took me a while to wrap my head around it.
Die doing what you love. That’s it.
It’s best to find enjoyment in life and die doing it. Writers should write because it makes us happy. Singers sing. Bakers bake. By doing what we have a passion for, we make the world we live in a bit better. By being passionate and happy at what we do, other people can be happy and passionate about what they do. Even if they suck at it. Especially when they suck at it – but the effort counts and practice makes perfect.
I wasn’t always a good writer. When I was little, my sentence structure was a nightmare to behold. I had little understanding of grammar. I liked writing, I liked creating worlds and stories in my head, so I went out of my way to learn how to properly write. I taught myself the tools of the trade. As a writer, I understand, all too well, how a poorly put together paragraph deters readers. I know a lack of grammar, of spelling, of sound sentences, will make even a good concept a piece of garbage.
I’ve come across good stories. I couldn’t read a number of them because of the structure.
Or lack thereof.
Perhaps I’m overly critical. It was this very reason why I thought about becoming an editor back in the day. However, I like writing too much myself to sit behind a desk fixing someone else’s story. I don’t think I’d be overly happy with that. I like my own stories. I like being in control, being able to shape and grow the story to the perfect picture of perfection that I see in my own mind.
Then work on it so it translates to the same image on paper.
Or in the text.
As a writer, I’m trapped in my own head. Having an ASD makes it twice as bad because I’m always up there, in that space that’s my mind. I can’t really put stories to word verbally, not the same way I can on a laptop or a PC. I’m not a Larper. Some people like acting out their scenes and the conversations between characters. I’d rather not do that because I’d rather just write it all down. Acting out an entire scene is exhausting and then I end up changing the scene because it doesn’t have the same energy or excitement to it.
I don’t talk much about my own stories because I feel like talking about the writing process of a story makes it loose its power. I won’t have the same drive to do anything with it because I know what’s going to happen. While it’s still buried in my skull, locked behind my lips, even if I have a vision of what comes next in the writing process, I can jump in and start plotting and start writing.
I can fuel the flames of Inspiration.
That’s what I love when it comes to writing. The complete freedom of the process.
I have three blogs total, two that are mine and a third that I share with a friend. I wrote a short post for the newest blog, just to have something on there for the time being. It deals with religion, as it is a major factor in the story, but the post itself is told through the eyes of one of the characters whose voice isn’t heard in the actual story.
Here’s an expert:
Imas wanted to scream.
It didn’t matter how many times he killed those motherfuckers, they just kept coming back. He paced the inner sanctuary of Deseri Claim, the temple massive and old and crumbling and a general piece of shit. He scowled, black-rimmed gaze narrowing as he turned on his heel and paced to the edge of the circular space where the altar had rested, some odd years ago. Before he tore it apart in a fit of rage…
For those of you here who like my writing, hop on over and read that. I think you’ll enjoy the post quite a bit. I laughed when I wrote it because Imas is one hell of a character. He’s a bit on the vulgar side, but that’s to be expected. I know his history and character pretty damn well. He was a character I had created years ago, but he didn’t have anywhere to go in any of my own stories. It was a process to let him slide over, to have joint custody over him when it was sole custody beforehand.
Gods, motherhood can be odd.
The main point of all this: I love what I do. If I was to die today, I’d be okay with it.