“After all, a good writer need only do two things well: Live and write, and the job is done.”
As I sit in my cubicle today staring at the stained ceiling tiles I let every one of these words roll off the tip of my tongue. Life is a grind and the minutes of desire, pain, grief, displeasure, anguish, and disgust add up to the story we spill to paper. In this job, much like my entire life before as a writer, it involves punching the time clock and watching the hourglass melt away till my death. The future of this writer is never certain. my life will not as is history for a writer encompasses fortune and fame. More so than not, it is a life of misunderstanding and toil that will and can only be understood and reach success long after dust has become my bones. My future, my legacy, and my surviving hours of this life are stories I have yet to put to page. If I can live through this forty hour bureaucratic agony of insurance claims that is now my soulless existence and the late night hours of painful stomach ulcer of depression, I am sure a story will prevail and it will be my solace from it all. That is the point as a writer. We must Live and Write. The job is living and it becomes a career like no other. Great writers such as Hemingway wrote of their life, and finally punched out and retired. He lived and made it a job to do so. He made no apologies. I am sure he had the knife at his throat on many nights from the daily mundane he despised. He rose above and created from this.
I seek to owe no apologies. I seek to live as a writer and it is a job I will make into my living. I will listen to people speaking in my ear, and interrupt me while I just want to speak my peace. I will attempt to make the best out of this cubicle and make a story out of the stains in the ceiling, the walls, and the small spaces of my heat I surrender as I count the hours of my life into story form. I fight to live every second. I fight to keep telling my story. My forty hours of a cubicle and the hours beyond a peaceful sleep is but a dream of a less shitty life in the deep well of my writing. My time clock, my desire, and my words come from the need to speak it and also be free from it. Living can become a story. It is the story I need to tell, and my job will be done. It is not until we know our edge that we can explain our center. I have not yet met my true edge, and decide today while counting ceiling tiles that this is just a topic and not a story that can define ages. I must eventually find a failure and a success that will express living on such an edge that it will be defining for ages to come. The time clock in my pocket can be punched at any time. It is the hours I put into the struggle that define my legacy. If I can just live through it all, I know the writing will be second nature, and eventually my job will be done.