So You Want To Be A Writer? by Charles Bukowski

An Essay About The Struggles Of A Wordsmith 
By Erica Livingston.

Dear Reader, 

I trust you're doing well in this third month of 2020. The wind's been howling incessantly this year and it might very well drive me to madness. I've been struggling to find my words, not those needed for the creation of fictional characters who operate in their made-up worlds executing their tasks as outlined by me, their creator, but words to describe the consequences of being trapped in the perpetual cycle of rejection that comes with the pursuit of publication. For what is worth pursuing if there is no reward, no commission, no guarantee of success? So why do I do it?

Because I do not know who I am if not a writer. 

I've been crippled by my desire to succeed. The loneliness that accompanies this effort of gaining recognition for my work, and ultimately becoming an author of fiction, a novelist, has been kicking me in the shin of late and I often find myself wondering if the dream is worth pursing at all. 

I turned 40 this year.

The only person I will forgive for forgetting the day is my grandmother who's memory isn't what it used to be. The day came and went like a normal day, much like the birthdays that had come before this one. Some family members remembered, as they always do, and if it wasn't for them I think I may very well have sunken into despair but only because this one was the 40th one. But fear not! I've never been one to promote these things. Self-indulgence makes me uncomfortable. Truth is next time, if I want to be celebrated and fussed over, I'll have to initiate a strategy. I'll invite everyone, officially claim January as MY BIRTHDAY MONTH, and celebrate every day of the week leading up to THE DAY with a selfie of me wearing a crown, host a party, bake a cake, expect presents, and take more selfies to immortalise the event on my IG account. That's mos how it's done, right? 

I don't care for all that, really. And I don't mind if that's your MO. You do you, you know? We all do what we gotta do for love or money. Though I must say, some days I find myself staring at my calendar, and when the day that's claimed by your name in black ink, or your husband's name or your kid's name, I hesitate.  

But I can't help but wonder: am I to blame? Has my absence caused my some of my friendships to fall into disrepair? After all, neglect leads to entropy.

I find myself sinking into the dirt, buckling under the heel of disillusionment. Perhaps the time has come for me to address the state of my mental health, a desperate attempt at redemption, I guess. I've been suffering from an anxiety disorder and have been in complete denial about it for quite some time now. After experiencing a severe panic attack in December, to extent where I thought I was going to die, the doctor had prescribed medication which I only started taking last week. Because I'm stubborn stupid like that. I've always been cautious of medication that has the ability to subdue my creativity and or alter my personality. So why am I so anxious?

I suspect motherhood as well as the responsibility, commitment and prolonged isolation that comes with raising a kid might be the culprit.

I'm happy to report that the medication is having more of a positive effect than I'd anticipated. I'm inspired again to try: to be a happy mom, a good wife, and a friend who's present. And of course, to be a novelist.

I will forge ahead.

About two weeks ago I found this poem. I've read it many times over and these words induce tears every time I hear them, reading it out loud so that I can feel it. For only a writer can be singed by the flames of the fire that consumes the heart of another writer and take pleasure in the pain.

So You Want To Be A Writer?
By Charmes Bukowski

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

Until next time.

Erica