Saturday, 26 April 2014

Six Foul Aspects of Being a Writer

Before you call me a douche bag, I shall explain. I use the term 'writer' loosely to reference lifestyle rather than professional success. It's to describe the people who use writing as a way to process their lives, not because they choose to, but because they can't choose not to.

1. Not wearing pants while working
I dunno 'bout them fancy writers that work in them offices with lotsa glass n stuff but for us non-prof folk, the term 'working' often refers to hanging out at home with your laptop, sans pants. I'm not trying to paint some sexy image in your mind. I'm talking about unwashed hair, an oversized t-shirt, food on your face and/or in your beard. I'm currently editing this while on a plane and I cannot describe the pure agony I'm experiencing by trying to work while dressed as a respectable member of society. It's messing with my head.

2. Eavesdropping in Cafes
If I could go to a cafe where pants were optional, I would be the most productive Gen Y in New Farm. Sadly, I must endure the binding restriction of my cobalt skinny leg pants while overhearing elderly patrons discuss the many residences of the de Bella family. I don't mean to alarm you, but I just heard confirmation that the de Bella family would relocate from their Oxlade Drive property if only they weren't experiencing financial difficulties. It's the opinion of these patrons that the Cerebral Palsy League should sell their block next door as “they have no business owning a property on one of Brisbane's premier streets.” They could easily sell their block to the de Bellas (if they had the funds to purchase it) and relocate to somewhere around Lutwyche. I know it's wrong of me to listen but the nerve of these people truly astounds me.

3. Crippling self-doubt
No matter how many people laugh at your words or publish your articles, you still think you suck. It's not just me, it's most people who write. Regardless of how the finish product turns out, the first draft will always make you want to give up on life and wear a matching velour tracksuit every time you leave the house. Seeing your failure so obviously, every time you work, is certainly enough to prevent any true belief of talent from infiltrating your ego. There's nothing more grounding than being incomprehensibly talentless at something you're passionate about.

4. Over thinking EVERYTHING
You will never know true mental anguish until you spend two hours debating the use of a single comma. To be a writer is to over think everything. You can't even look at a goddamn street sign without your internal monologue noting how the afternoon sunlight enriches it's metal surface with a menacing glow, displaying an accurate portrayal of the day's troubling events. Seriously, I have the mind of a pretentious twat.

5. Hating clichés, because you're one of them
You look at the group of bros in the club with their flat brimmed hats and v-neck shirts and cringe while they attempt to convince girls they can remember their names. You feel just as much resentment when you lock eyes with someone in a public space who's reading the same book as you. It's not their choice of reading material that makes you suppress the world's biggest eye roll, it's the fact that they view the coincidence as a sign that you'll one day end up married. You find clichés to be vomit inducing and unoriginal yet you are well aware that your daily life is about as cliché as it gets. Just like every other Gen Y wannabe, you wake up before you'd like to, come to terms with your torturous reality and try with all your mite to drag your arse out of bed and be productive... in the quiet corner of a trendy cafe, wearing Wayfarers and an ironic knitted beanie.

6. Drinking alone
It's no secret that I'd like to publish a book one day. If you draw inspiration from the lives of Hemingway, Tenessee Williams or anyone else on this list, drinking alone could be considered invaluable work experience. Obviously, you don't need to drink to be creative, hugs not drugs and all of that, but let's be real here. I started this piece while drinking alone and devouring sherbet like it was cocaine. But I can stop any time I like. The sherbet, I mean. Certainly not the drinking.

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