The Conversation While Writing

A man puts down his pen. A man picks up his pen. Indeterminable moments pass and his pen is back down. Perhaps, Man thinks, he needs a drink. Man picks up pen, gets up, and goes to get drink, realizes he cannot pour drink with pen in hand. Man sets down pen. Man realizes, via his behavior and the large number of empty tumblers on his desk, that he may have had enough to drink. Man sits down.

Maybe this isn’t how I want this story to start. Maybe I need to learn to shut up and let myself talk.

The Man, of course, isn’t just a Man, his name is…

Indetermineable moments pass and a name is still not found

Well his name isn’t important. What is important is that he is trying to write a book

How very self referential

And he is having trouble…

Not making it any better for yourself, are-

The man is in a room

Aren’t we all

Sitting at his desk

Who else would be sitting there

And he-

I think we know it’s a guy

And he very much hates his writer.

Hey, be careful there, I made you

Yes, I don’t think he cares very much about that

But I Created him

Was that capital C really necessary?

Well is is something of importance, isn’t it

No, it isn’t. you are just trying to grant what you do some false importance. As if creating a world and creating people in it makes you a God (capital G intended)

Well… Doesn’t it?

Oh don’t go down that road. They don’t exist. All this is, just so happens to be you sitting in a comfy armchair with a glass of watered brandy trying to escape into a world of your own making

But it has importance!

What, the Importance of the Artist? All False, I assure you. An artist creates things that people merely like or despise with all their hearts. Do they make foreign policy? Do they lobby for new laws concerning corporate regulation? No, they sit and whine and bitch and do nothing. How does that matter a whit?

It doesn’t


Not to you, at least

Not to anyone.

Not true. Someone’s acting once inspired a man to try and kill Ronald Reagan.

A lunatic

A Human

A Crazy one

How does that matter? Every single one of us is at least a bit crazy, and we can sit and not be able to do anything about foreign policy, but every one of us can create. Every one of us can show someone something beautiful or interesting or horrifying.

But that doesn’t mean that what you create means anything to the world

The World? Screw the world. It doesn’t have to mean shit-all to the world. For all we know, the world isn’t sentient. You know who is? Us. We experience, we create, and we feel. We are the only reason we know we exist. Because like it or not, there is more than one of us. And I don’t know about the world, but if I can influence one person, if I can change then, then I have changed a world. Theirs at the very least. What you don’t realize is that this world isn’t one coherent mass, it is just a landmass inhabited by billions of people who see things differently, and billions of people who have their own worlds. So I’ll tell you this, you don’t have the dominion over worlds that I do. By just going on stage and speaking I can change a hundred, by writing I can change a thousand. That’s the thing. I don’t control or create reality, I add to it.


While stranded in Albuquerque

I thought it would end up being a uniquely odd experience, flying from coast to coast on THIS day. I expected the airport to be empty, I expected people to make a scene, to be outspoken, scared, angry, and sad. I expected something a bit different than what I got, which was the everyday pedestrian hustle-bustle. If I didn’t know what day it was today, I wouldn’t even know it was important.

I used to be rather pissed that there weren’t any riots. Its not that I want people to be angry, that I want people to take to the streets in their rage, its just that I wanted them to care, I wanted them to fight for the people of this country. I looked at England and France and saw a youth that was willing to lay down its life for its country, I looked to this country and I saw a youth stagnant, a youth silent. I saw an entire generation dead on their feet, struggling for nothing more than a stable wage and a liveable life.

I was wrong.

I didn’t quite see it until today, that ineffable quality that America breeds into its youth, that stalwart determination in the face of everything. This is a day that, in all experience, should shut everything down, a day where people try not to leave their houses or do any work out of both respect, fear, or grief. This should be the kind of day that halts a country. But it didn’t stop this one.

No, this country is not lazy. No, America is not scared. No, America is not angry. We are determined. Given all that flies in our face, all that seems to conspire against us, we keep working. Given all who keep on dying over seas, we keep going. Given all of the fear, the terror, and the pure unmasked and irrational news we keep getting, we still go to work. Deep down, I think we know better than anyone else in the world: we keep moving and we keep working even if the sun itself threatens to swallow us. That way, no one can keep us down.