On Writing

I've come to this conclusion about the profession of writing: lots of people want to be writers, and lots of people say that anyone can write, but most people don't like to focus inwardly for long periods of time. They don't want to force themselves to pour over their own memories for diamonds.

They don't want to constantly mine the human experience for good material.

But a good writer knows that everything is material. Every conversation, every memory, every word, and every experience is something that can be saved and used later.

While hanging out with some friends, I had this realization: some people don't like to be alone to think. They don't want to think about the things that bother them. They would rather spend time around people and things which make them happy than face the possibility of having to be alone with their thoughts.

And maybe that works for some people.

I'm not one of those people who can ignore the world around me and pretend it doesn't matter. I wish almost every day that I was. Ignorance is bliss, as they say, and it's probably true. Life was easier when you didn't know things. It was easier to believe in God than it was to believe we came from Evolution. It was easier to believe that the world was a good place because I grew up in a nice part of it. It was easier, and safer, when I didn't know anything about sex.

But part of enjoying life, part of growing up, part of the human experience, is losing that innocence. Some days, it hurts more than others. Like the day I found out I was no longer allowed to drink from a bottle. That one was rough. Or the day I found out it wasn't cool to sleep with stuffed animals anymore. Man, highschool was a bitch.

Then there are other days I wouldn't have it any other way.