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Unfinished Thought

It is true that the wheel of history spins in a circle. But individual men are the center, the spoke, which moves always in a straight line. That which incites the revolution knows only one direction: forward. It is for that reason that I wanted to be a writer, to really capture the passionate acts of those around me. At first I would tell stories about the homeless, the penniless, the luckless, the bottomfeeders, the losers, the nobodys. Then I moved up to the wanna-bes, the poseurs, the maddened frenzy, the bloodthirsty, the strugglers, and above all, the lonely. As time passed and death took people away–a classmate, a banker, a family member–as time passed and death made itself known I grew scared and found a way to preserve my little world, and wrote endless accounts of the people I knew and met and loved. I wrote for years and years, never daring as a young man to show them what I had kept secret. I felt filthy at times, a voyuer, a pervert, taking what they told me and constructing an elaborate myth. I felt that our friendship was feigned, a relationship of convenience–for me, me only–in order to get at something better than real.

The crux

I suppose that every writer, at one point or another, has felt this way. I suppose the lunatic wonders if his thoughts are real, if the people around him are trustworthy. In comparison, the writer worries if his ideas are original, or ascribed to some distant memory, an old conversation. When the writer is unpublished, everyone turns into fodder for the fiction. If he happens to string together a few decent words and convince a group of moneyed publishers to back him up, he finds himself surrounded by people who leap at the chance to get included, even if their cast as monsters, because it’s better to be remembered as something then not at all.