Reading the works of Paul Auster has made me understand that if I want to write a great novel I first must try to understand people. I need to listen to the universal truths that are spewed out on the morning drive, on the early train, on my lunchtime walks. I need to train myself to listen, to pay attention. Why am I so afraid to listen? To write what I hear, what I see, what I feel? AM I hiding from the world? (It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?). This is the time to say everything, to be young and do what young people do.
But as the sun peeks out from the clouds and spreads warmth on my face, igniting the words on this page, I feel nothing and everything all at once. I don’t know where to begin. I falter. I’m afraid to move but anxious to go. You know the dread you feel when you sit down on the subway (a 30 minute ride) and suddenly the alarms in your stomach and ass start ringing, screaming YOU SHOULD PROBABLY FIND A BATHROOM? Yeah, my life feels a lot like that right now. I’m pinching my cheeks, playing tricks on my mind and body, teaching them patience (or trying to). But the screaming continues — LET’S GO, GET UP, MOVE IT, WE GOTTA GO!
By comparing my life to a bowel movement I’m not trying to imply that my life is shitty. In fact, it’s far from that. It’s the urgency I feel at every moment, the anxiety that I’m trying to get across, to relieve myself of with this post, with these words.
Writing as catharsis is not bullshit. IT actually works. I feel lighter already.