A Bit About Writing

This is Angry Tablecloth, because if you’re not going to read a real book, might as well read this shit.  If you have looked at the About Me page, you know why I am here.  If you have not, basically, I am here on this planet to spread goodwill and tolerance, to all of the insufferable morons who could use a little.  Today I will go into further detail about why I write, and why here is one of the places I choose to do so.

I write, because I am good at it, and anything that can be done well is worth doing, unless it involves a club and a baby seal.

I write in order to construct myself into a fictional character, which I primarily use to express earnest opinions without the hassle of conviction.  I can transparently state this, and even justify it by conveniently telling dear readers that much of this is honest, and the rest a blatant lie, because this is an exercise in critical thinking, even if it is really so I do not have to defend my assertions.  (C’mon, baby, I’m not crazy!  That’s just my character!)  To believe as I do without reason is as folly as to dismiss it without cause.  The source is irrelevant if the content is apt.  To throw away good information, because the person sharing it suddenly spurts out, “Baboon erections are remarkably supple,” could be a shame.  The only source that ultimately matters is you.  There is a part of you connected to the highest forms of reality.  Call this part the soul, or the heart, or the subconscious, or call it common sense, but if you are reading this now, and are able to understand it, for the most part, then the ability to align with this higher source is possible.  Or maybe this is all a lie to impress a certain zookeeper with a certain key to a baboon habitat.  Even if I were being insincere, for the most part, do I not seem smart enough to come up with better lies than the crap I preach with certitude?  Just not smart enough to do it… goddamn.  Being too smart for your own good simply means you are not smart enough.  I have been told I am too smart for my own good.  I have also been told I have a tangential train of thought.  It matters little, because this is a crazy blog, by a crazy person, or is that my character?  No, it’s not, but you do not necessarily know that.  It’s working!  (Baby, I have never thought of myself as a semi-telepathic loner!  Get back here!  I know you love me!  I can read your goddamned mind!)  Back to the topic of writing.

What I write is either true, or a fabrication designed to arouse questions that will lead to a profound truth.  No matter what, I am always right.

I write in order to construct worlds for my thoughts to run loose in – worlds where others can loose themselves in.  And once lost in these worlds my thoughts can prey on the unsuspecting, burrowing into the psyches of readers, manipulating their thoughts and actions, like… psyche… burrowing… thought spiders.  Literature just so happens to be the most inexpensive format to accomplish this goal, and this site is as cheap as it gets.  Nevertheless, had I known how much goddamned work it is to write in a smartly, creatively creative way, I would have chosen another route like painting, or drug dealing.  Nah, I’m just screwin’ with ya, probably.

I do not write for the sake of sounding smart.  Like the twinkling robot voice in my head often says, “Fuck sounding smart.  Just try not to look stupid.”

I write, because it is fun, but I would find another path if I did not believe others could derive pleasure from reading this.  It would be like telling a lovely lady I wanted to pleasure her, as she laid in bed, only to have me masturbate in front of her face for ten minutes, before saying, “Good night,” and falling asleep.  Hell, it would be more like just going straight to sleep, without giving her the courtesy of such a wondrous image to pleasure herself to, while I lifelessly snore away.

I write to quiet the voices.  There is another voice, (among others) less twinkly, less robotic, more diminutive, more emaciated, that tells me I also write with an altruistic spirit, and need to be mindful of it.  This nuisance states my compulsion towards self expression is largely motivated by an urge to heal, and inform, for the welfare of others, which is a matter of personal interest, if nothing else.  It whispers to me that while I do write with dreams of gold rings, and exotic pets (mostly primates) dancing in my head, I would risk all of those potential rewards for free expression.  Possessing the will to speak  up in the face of silencers is more of a reward, than to alternatively sell half truths to an audience twice the size, for an even more substantial income increase.  I try to ignore this voice – to fight it into submission – to starve it to death, yet this inevitably leaves me spiritually malnourished, and so satisfying the needs of others is the only thing to sate the grumbling hunger, that is this piss-ant of a voice pleading for a little soul food.  Call it an affliction.

Writing is like listening to my favorite song when I was a teenager, or as a really drunk adult.

Writing can be a coexisting test of mettle, way of life, and form of meditation.  If I am unwilling to be honest with myself, or if I am unwilling to face the truths presented in a given moment, it becomes strenuous, at the very least, to compose material to share that is not false, or cliché.  This is an unshakable part of my perception.  Deception is often designed to dampen a waking mind, while the truth can inspire new levels of thought and activity.  Appreciation, contemplation, engaging in sociable situations, and embracing experiences outside my comfort zones are all factors of inspiration.  Seeking such inspiration causes me to embrace life in new ways.  Understand this reality, let the process unfold, and it can boost confidence, enhance views, improve interactions with the surrounding world, enrich thoughts, and expand your state of being, bolstering the way of life notion, if used for these purposes.  Reading about this can have the same affect as writing about it, naturally.  As mentioned in previous posts, it is a matter of desire and commitment, and writing is yet another way to demonstrate and fortify these basic qualities.

Writing can also be a litmus test of humanity’s goodness.  The ability to freely share ideas without the threat of being silenced, or censored is a reflection of tolerance.  Being silenced or censored by a tyrannical force demonstrates the goodness of a society as well, as the fear of such forces clearly dictates.

For all of the reasons I write, I have no reason not to.  Whether I am working on a novel, or on novel work, (ha-ha… why am I alive?) this is time well invested, and I hope you can say the same.  Thanks for listening… reading, and until next time, I’m Angry Tablecloth… until next time… when I will be someone else?  Why am I trying to develop a catch phrase?  Damn, this was well written, before now.

P.S.  The comment about baboon erections was initially about consensual dog sex, but I felt it skirted a little too closely to a comment I heard the other day, and so I changed it to how dog erections are shockingly pliable, but I did not know if that was true, and I like my comedy to be based on first hand experiences, hence the baboon remark.  That is just my character speaking.  Please tell me you believe that.

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