I am concerned that writing is becoming a lifestyle. What I mean, simply, is that I am not anymore just someone who writes – as I’ve been for awhile now. What I am is a fucking writer.
This idea first came to mind when a friend of mine commented that I seemed less concerned with my physical presence, my Earthly one, than others. It’s not that I don’t think these things like matter, but rather that it just didn’t occur to me. Kind of like a monk being told that his robes aren’t very becoming when he’s thinking about how he is perceived by God.
I don’t know how this comparison would make me seem anything but arrogant and out of touch. It’s not that, though, it’s just that I spend so much time thinking about things separate from what actually goes on around me that I seem out of touch and disrespectful.
If I ever imagined I could be normal, be not a writer, I would be, it’s that simple. This is not a choice so much as a calling. I know that the signs, I know what other writers, rappers, poets and artists who’ve found success describe when they talk about they creativity.
It’s impossible to qualify this, it’s a feeling at best. A premonition or something like that, if there were words for this I’m sure I wouldn’t know them because I don’t think English has been used for anything but expressing things efficiently.
But anyways, I am pleased. I know I talk about writing a lot, but it’s truly one of the only things that crosses my mind on the daily. It’s in my blood. It’s who I am.