i once spoke to a person that somehow had no idea about writing and so he asked me: ”what is it like being a writer?”
since i couldn’t give a full answer in casual conversation i may give it now. to the world, to my world, to my beloved notebook.
bukowski once described writing as a disease and somehow it’s just like that. the most beautiful disease one will ever have and never lose if you’re truly made for that. writing is not like metaphorical itch to scratch. it’s a mixture of wine, ink and absinth running through your veins, driving your crazy. in the end all writers are mad man.
and when you’re writing you don’t see things, it’s as if you simply had all the sherlock moments without being a sociopath ( at least not all writers are ones ). you observe and listen and shake your head to all the stupidity of this world.
in the end you can at least rant about them and everything is fine.
but it is not only about observing others as it might appear now. it’s about observing yourself after all. i feel like you know yourself a lot better after years of writing. people always describe writing as if you’d lose something while you put all these splinters of your soul and mind in words and stories and characters. but can you imagine a more beautiful way to grow than traveling through spheres, thoughts and beating hearts?
the artist is the creator of beautiful things. – oscar wilde
and first and foremost that’s themselves.
i think it is rather unlikely for you to meet an artist that doesn’t understand people as concepts. because we mostly take this for granted as the base of our art. yes, sure. many aspects add up but even then the artist himself is essential. not in the physical existence but mindfulness.
the desire to create. and wine.