Fear, Truth, Dignity, and Survival

The above words keep flying into and out of your mind. You struggle to stay sane and relevant in an insane and meaningless world where scumbags lie in order to look good, where cowards hanker and hunger for power. One douche bag told you he wanted to be a writer when he was through with earning his daily bread as if the disclosure of that grandiose wet dream would somehow impress you. Shit, one writes because one has to, not waiting for the moment when one has the time. We make time. Writing is a necessity like breathing. There are so many phonies and assholes in this world, motherfuckers with average intelligence and talent yet fancy that they are all geniuses. There are so many ignoramuses pretending to be scholars, mouthing off nonsense in a vain effort to gain respect.

You read a story about a prostitute being blackmailed by one of her clients. The story was good until the author, a woman, tried to be fanciful and went for a complicated ending whereas the simpler ending hinted at earlier would be a dynamite. You felt cheated. Why the fuck she was not content with simplicity? She had a good plot. The language was controlled. Everything was heading towards a rare satisfying conclusion, then bam, she changed her mind and opted for an unrealistic, pedagogical phony ending. The author was no better than a whore herself, all fake and fanciful, instead of simple and direct and enduring like Hemingway when he was at his best. In any story, the ending must make sense, not far-fetched or contrived. The hardest part of the narrative is the ending, as any story-teller would attest. Say, you were young and came from a poor family. You met a plain-looking, but smart and rich girl in college. She approached you. You, fresh from getting no where with having a crush over another smart but not so rich girl, went out with this girl. Lo and behold, you found yourself liking her more and more as time went on. She one day said she liked you, too, but she and you woukd have no chance to have a future together because her mother would not accept you because of your humble background. You said, fine, no problem and you bid her farewell. But the next day, she came to look for you, saying you misunderstood her, and she cried. Then she and you went out for three years. Meanwhile there were other girls who were interested in you, but you were faithful with her. Then one day, she met somebody new and she dumped you like a sack of rotten potatoes. Now, as a story-teller, how are you going to proceed? Are you going to tell the truth, the farce, and the folly of the adolescent love cruelly violated and betrayed, the hurt and disappointment that almost destroyed you and in the end turned you into a poet and a philosopher who refused to let go of the bittersweet memories? Or are you making up some nonsensical, artificial ending of the story? No, you are opting for unfulfilled love and eternally sad recollections whenever a certain song, a certain phrase, a certain desire that comes from nowhere and reminds you of her. So, that's what love is all about. The memories, the anger, the hurts, and the inability to forget because you wouldn't want to get hurt ever again. There is a certain part of you shut off from others.