What to Write
Not every word needs to be bloody
Not every word needs to be written in blood. Sometimes it’s okay to just write about your day, the sunset you saw that looked really nice and made you think about how happy you were suddenly, or how lonely, or ambivalent for not feeling anything. Maybe someone said something nice to you, or you and someone connected eyes for a second and they smiled at you and looked away before you had a chance to smile back, or maybe you looked away because you got shy and returned their smile as you looked at the ground and wished you didn’t look away because it would’ve been nicer to smile back with connected purpose, not pleasantry merely and meekly returned.
I define a writer as someone who needs to write. But not everyone that needs to write does write. Instead, sometimes it itches the back of your mind while you lounge on the couch, or comes to the fore as you wake up and think maybe today will be the day though soon enough it gets beat into submission of things that have convinced you are more important than pen on paper.
I don’t often write to music, but sometimes it can influence what comes out. For me, I imagine a scene, sitting somewhere outside observing the inner landscape of people in a bar or cafe. For this type of looking, it’s usually Jazz that does the job. Bill Evans kind of Jazz. Where it’s just the piano and the people are clearing out but the one’s that stayed are laughing with half-glass drinks in front of them, and there’s a guy and girl—because there’s always a guy and girl—and you know that was once you some time ago and maybe will be again, and when it was and when it is, you won’t think about the writer seeing you and writing you down as a decoration in his unread novel because you’re the subject doing the living or, if you’re really in love, she is, the girl whose body is turned to you laughing and smiling. And somewhere there’s a bartender leaned across the countertop talking to a couple people and a third, the regular, sitting there all alone but not so alone anymore, sometimes chiming in to confirm that, “yes, there used to be that record shop on West 3rd and MacDougal…Yes, right next to Ben’s.” and “ooooh okays” in response.
The idea that you need to be inspired to write is really bullshit. No writer is ever really inspired. And if he is, once he sits to write that inspiration goes away pretty quickly. But if you really need inspiration. Take a walk through the park in the city, where there’s a lot of people. Pass by the chess hustlers, the fountain where people sit around, stop and listen to the street musicians canvassing your surroundings and as you stand there, you see that couple laying on each other under the shades of that bough, the gray-haired pastel painter sketching all you lovely people and see a few Asian bystanders peering over him but standing kindly at distance and he, carrying on, as though he’s alone—because no real artist fumbles when being watched; he’s empowered by it, he is more than an artist, he is a performer, a sportsman. Writers don’t always get this because their performance is exiled to their bedrooms and the enjoyment of the finished product is up to everyone else—exiled is a strong word, some writers sit in Starbucks—but come on, let’s be serious. But writers shouldn’t think of performance—and I don’t mean to reaffirm the cliche “write for yourself and not for others,” because that’s also bullshit. It’s not about that at all. When we think about others judging our writing what we’re really doing is judging ourselves through the eyes of others and, while that can be a curse, it is also a blessing. It means, if we assume ourselves to be formidable in our craft, that we know what is good and what is not. If something is garbage, throw it out. But do yourself a favor, at least write.
Write about what you think of birds, or trees, or girls, or cigars, or gum on sidewalks, until you get to the part that you really wanted to talk about. If it sucks, no matter. Not every piece of Fitzgerald is “good.” Don’t believe me? Read “On Booze.” Or don’t. Because it doesn’t really matter.