Every once in a while I get confident enough to call myself
a writer. But then reality comes crashing in when I read something like Charles
Bukowski’s “The Last Night of Earth Poems.” I read his short, simple,
disgusting, brilliant poems and think “these could have been mine! Every one of
these! I’ve had these thoughts, I’m sure of it! I recognize them.” But the
truth is, a true writer crafts beauty out of those mundane moments most people
only recognize as valuable when they are thrust into his/her face.
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I read Bukowski and think how simple it is, how easy to
write the way he does, but when I sit down and put some Benjamins to my lips I
realize I’m not a writer. Not the way he is. We could both stare at a paper
clip and come up with completely different results. Sure, I could get past just
describing the object itself. I could make some sort of elaborate analogy about
holding things together in life, blah, blah, blah but that’s almost like
cheating. Bukowski has a way of looking at something head on and recognizing
the beauty that’s already there instead of creating something imaginary and
irrelevant.
I don’t know if any of you are writers, but am I the only
one whose writing is mostly born out of envy? Seriously, I feel like I will
read something brilliant and think, well, now I have to try to do it better. It’s
like planting roses in manure. Sure, the results can be beautiful but the
process to get there is just crappy. But I guess a rose is a rose no matter how
it gets there (I have to be careful I’m treading dangerously close to
Shakespeare).
Maybe that’s why I’ve started writing about five different
books but I haven’t actually finished any of them. Envy is a short-lived
motivator, kind of like a sugar rush. Anyways, I’ve just noticed that this
whole post is sort of ironic since I’m spending the whole time talking about
how I’m not a writer. I guess I can’t avoid it. Writing is sort of a part of
me. But if you’re looking for actual writing, read Charles Bukowski. The man is
a genius.
