“Where is the line between art and nonsense?” asks this writer, barely managing to understand common sense on her better days. She refrains from visiting the city’s galleries for fear of screaming at a blank white canvas with a single red line down the center.
“Oh, but you don’t understand!” the curator would protest, purple plaited hair pulling her head down with the weight of the bullshit embedded in every strand, “It represents the stain of menstruation on a prepubescent girls purity!The blotch on a white wall of innocence is simply striking!”
“Simply simple,” I’d counter, “Simply stupid. Try ‘simply silly’ for good measure.”
“No alliteration can hide the fact that you’re just closed-minded.” implies the imaginary curator in my head- an odd thing for my head to propose considering it had always considered itself to be open and willing to learn.
With the same air of pretentiousness in which I constantly carry my notebook through the streets, I advertise and explore my thoughts within its pages, scrapping for so much as a simple line that transcends above the pedestrian, The way we are forced to bend and twist the limits and strengths of lyrical language, it is no wonder we are left scratching our heads through our metaphorical finger-less gloves when an art-piece entitled “Bolt in Balsa Wood” which is exactly what it sounds like is sold for millions, lining the pockets of the same genius who once yodeled for three days straight while holding a sign depicting the words “Oppressed be the meek” and was given a hefty grant as a result.
That’s not art. That’s what the Muppet known as Gonzo the Great partakes in as a part of his morning routine. Was that story actually true? Nope, but guess what? You believed it for a hot minute because occurrences like these have in fact occurred!
This is not to declare that writers produce nothing but constant perfection with no exceptions. Every Shakespeare has his Stephanie Meyer and every Stephen King has their intelligible fanfiction on Wattpad. In fact, the Greats have a lot to be thankful for in the Mediocres for there would be no standards to contrast by otherwise.
As someone who considers herself to be just above ‘Very Good’ on the quality metre, I’m left feeling relieved as I at least know I could be very much worse off. I once tried to write badly on purpose. My only victory was in contracting a nasty headache and a distinct desire to set my laptop on fire to destroy any evidence of the foolish endeavor.
With the statistics of ever being published being against me, I can’t help but ponder what occurred in my conception to create a mind so full of words that numbers in its many factions never stood a chance. Numbers equal stability. Numbers equal a stable job in accounting or some bullshit I’d rather shoot myself than commit my life to.
What are you going to do now? What is the next step in the plan? Where is that degree going to take you? Why are you still working in a hospital kitchen? Are you writing a book? What type of writing do you do? Have you been published yet? Can I read your work?
None of those questions are going to be answered until everyone stops asking. It’s not that I strive to be ungrateful in regards to everyone’s interest and concern. My writing is my primary form of expressing emotion. The harder you pry, the faster I back off.
It occurred to be quite recently that readers don’t understand that writing has to be just as thoroughly rehearsed and revised as the standard stage play. This epiphany was immediately followed up-with a a physical palm to the forehead- that this is how I’ve been approaching all facets of my life. Preparation first. Presentation second. No improvisation to be found, I’m simply adept at creating an illusion of me doing so.
Whether this particular quirk of mine will ever come in handy remains to be seen. Freezing during a conversation because I can’t process some kind of intelligent comeback is definitely not a perk in this instance. As for my writing, my reserved approach has in fact saved me from making grievous errors before, something my university tutors picked up on and encouraged.
Perhaps I am doomed to live as a socially, emotionally inept fool in the eyes of others while my pen and my keyboard are the only keys I’ll have to unlocking open expression. Or- and this is where my life’s journey may lay- it is my fate that I must embark on a mission to learn to bring the words through my mouth rather than my pen, doing so without feeling that pressure which makes me want to cry.
It all remains to be seen and it is with these thoughts that I leave it be.
Til next time,
Muppet Enthusiast, Film Lover, Book Adorer. No one original, but (hopefully) providing brand new perspectives for the world to process. Currently a Bachelor of Arts undergraduate at Deakin University.