Why I Write, Part 2

Sequel to sci-fi film. Crowded audience. The movie previews play. One after the other, it’s a preview for an animated kids film.

The animated animals do silly things. Make silly jokes. A man, three seats down, laughs. He laughs with his mouth wide open. I don’t find any of this funny. They’re jokes for kids, but somehow it tickles his belly. He sounds like Santa Claus ho-ho-ho-ing at a bar with friends. The lady he’s with laughs too. She’s not as loud, but she sounds like she’s enjoying herself just as much as he is. I’m disgusted. Is this all it takes for some people?

After several animated film previews, a preview for a superhero film comes on. I’m not a fan of these recent superhero films. They’re candy for tweens and fanboys. But I’m enjoying the preview for this one. It involves the government and the superheroes.

This can be good. Very philosophical. Risky even. I want to see it.

“I don’t get it,” the guy says.

“I don’t get it either,” she says.

Is this it? Is this the top of pops when it comes to being a successful artist? Entertaining this guy and his wife? Could I even have a conversation with them about anything other than football scores? I will not write for these people.

. . .

It’s not about writing for yourself. It’s about writing from yourself. It’s not about being perfect. It’s about perfectly expressing who you are.

I still entertain thoughts of being widely accepted by the public. But the style of my artistic output says that it won’t happen.

It’s hard to accept, but liberating in those moments when you do accept it.

Why is it hard to accept?

We have no right to see ourselves the way we want to. It violates who we actually are. And who we are is not always beautiful. It’s rough, it’s twisted, it’s a weirdo. But if we can express those things than we can create beauty.

. . .

The movie ended. It liked it. I went home. I sat down to write.

Nothing came out.