A Familiar Indifference
I am best at writing.
Also, I am no good at producing writing, and don't see why I should bother.
And yet.
People who produce quality long fiction impress me. Impress, yes, but not necessarily amaze --- because it's something I shouldcouldwould be able to do myself. Except for the part where I can't, and yet.
This book i've read over break. Good Omens. It makes me want to wind up my own characters and unleash them upon the world, to see what it makes of them (this will probably amount at best to resounding indifference --- the world is good at that), if only because It was written fairly recently, and it is . . . well, good. Excellent, really. It reminded me yet again that good fiction is in fact still being published. And a voice in my head whispers: 'you could do that.' But then . . . I mean, if there's a poet on every street-corner, there's an aspiring novelist behind at least ever other aimless BA in humanities. Does the world really need another of those?
That, by the way, is a reliably wrong question. I've become pretty well convinced that the world doesn't really need anyone: we're all quite dispensable. If anything, the world would probably breathe a deep sigh of relief if we all disintegrated on the spot (unless of course the plague of boredom inevitably accompanies sentience, in which case the sentient world assumed in this scenario might just get bored without us around, though I daresay we aren't the only species capable of providing entertainment).
Failing at indispensable, irreplaceable is sometimes a realistic goal, or at least a convenient stop somewhere short of Listless Apathy, which we all know is the ultimate destination of train we get on when we ask the Reliably Wrong Question (yay ridiculous metaphors, idk who 'we' is, i should go to bed). Sort of like a safety school. Yes i'm a useless idiot, but by Jove no one else is useless quite like me.
Considering the matter that way . . . it mightn't be so bad. So long as I don't open my thought to the Sea of Others who, collectively, negate my individuality, I can happily fancy myself and my (potential) creations to be at least irreplaceable. And, godsdamnit, it's what I'm good at! I'm good at acting and creating things. I'm all right at academics, but ye gods does it drain me (and leave me `feeling like a piece of meatloaf that's been left in the fridge for two months past its expiration date etc', not sure I got that quite right)*
This post went just about nowhere. Good night world.
[waves at the world]
[world waves back with a familiar indifference, as if to say `Good night, my useless idiot. Good night.' ]
*Kapelle
Also, I am no good at producing writing, and don't see why I should bother.
And yet.
People who produce quality long fiction impress me. Impress, yes, but not necessarily amaze --- because it's something I shouldcouldwould be able to do myself. Except for the part where I can't, and yet.
This book i've read over break. Good Omens. It makes me want to wind up my own characters and unleash them upon the world, to see what it makes of them (this will probably amount at best to resounding indifference --- the world is good at that), if only because It was written fairly recently, and it is . . . well, good. Excellent, really. It reminded me yet again that good fiction is in fact still being published. And a voice in my head whispers: 'you could do that.' But then . . . I mean, if there's a poet on every street-corner, there's an aspiring novelist behind at least ever other aimless BA in humanities. Does the world really need another of those?
That, by the way, is a reliably wrong question. I've become pretty well convinced that the world doesn't really need anyone: we're all quite dispensable. If anything, the world would probably breathe a deep sigh of relief if we all disintegrated on the spot (unless of course the plague of boredom inevitably accompanies sentience, in which case the sentient world assumed in this scenario might just get bored without us around, though I daresay we aren't the only species capable of providing entertainment).
Failing at indispensable, irreplaceable is sometimes a realistic goal, or at least a convenient stop somewhere short of Listless Apathy, which we all know is the ultimate destination of train we get on when we ask the Reliably Wrong Question (yay ridiculous metaphors, idk who 'we' is, i should go to bed). Sort of like a safety school. Yes i'm a useless idiot, but by Jove no one else is useless quite like me.
Considering the matter that way . . . it mightn't be so bad. So long as I don't open my thought to the Sea of Others who, collectively, negate my individuality, I can happily fancy myself and my (potential) creations to be at least irreplaceable. And, godsdamnit, it's what I'm good at! I'm good at acting and creating things. I'm all right at academics, but ye gods does it drain me (and leave me `feeling like a piece of meatloaf that's been left in the fridge for two months past its expiration date etc', not sure I got that quite right)*
This post went just about nowhere. Good night world.
[waves at the world]
[world waves back with a familiar indifference, as if to say `Good night, my useless idiot. Good night.' ]
*Kapelle