I think one of the worst parts of being a writer is trying to appear normal. Especially at grown-up gatherings such as holidays, dinner parties, gallery openings. I really like the self-check out at the supermarket; cuts down on one more human interaction. What is normal? How would I know? The thing is, I pass. Most of us do. We don’t live in Morocco, or Prague, or wherever the hell Denis Johnson lives. We are among you. Observing, sizing up, spying. Listening in on your conversation and writing down your best lines. We are having an affair with the grad student at the Blue State Cafe, telepathically of course.We are searching for a pen in the bottom of our bag. We are doing our jobs, checking our balances, emptying the dishwasher, again. Why do I feel so desolate?
I want to understand how it is that being by myself with my keyboard is when I feel least alone. Not connected to others, per se. I’ve never understood writers who say they write to help other people. I write to hurt them. Just kidding, sort of. I write to feel normal.
Can anyone relate?
Filed under: The End of the World as We Know It |