How You Really Become A Writer

...the cliche is mostly true: you have to be poor, deeply troubled, near death, and presented with past life details by an annoying psychic

Photo by Patrick Fore on Unsplash

A psychic once told me I was a linguist in a past life.

“What’s a linguist?” I unironically asked her.

And here she sounded it out phonetically for me, as if this offered some kind of clue. She did this very slowly and deliberately, the way you might when speaking to the hard of hearing, or the mentally handicapped.

Her tongue, trapped between her two front teeth, touched her upper lip — “Liiiiingg”; and then with lips pursed — “geeewwww”; and then finally a very crisp “ist” to wrap it up, with an emphasis on the “t”. She practically spat it out.

I didn’t get it.

“Think!” she implored. And then she went through the whole routine again, only this time following the word “linguist” with the word “language”.“Ling-geewww-ist…lan-geewww-age. Lin-geeewww-ist…lan-geeewww-age…”

I failed to see the connection. But I nodded along anyway because this was getting embarrassing and I just wanted it to stop.

The only thing the two words had in common, phonetically anyway, was the “geewww” in the middle. The connection she was attempting to make was tenuous at best, and I resented the implication that I was somehow thick by not getting it.

So I changed the subject…

“Can you tell me more about the UFO sightings on John’s Pass Road?” I asked her.

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There were a couple Barnes & Nobles nearby where I grew up, and as I got into my late teens and early 20’s I began spending quite a bit of time there.

It wasn’t necessarily because I was a book lover; it was more of a default activity, honestly.

I was broke, terribly depressed, and seeking solitude.

And I was seeking escape.

And what better way to escape than to drink near fatal quantities of caffeine while reading about shapeshifting reptilian aliens from the lower fourth dimension?

Depression is like gravity — it holds you down. Lacking the vigor to rise above it myself, I often required some kind of substance as rocket fuel. Caffeine doesn’t make you forget like alcohol can; but as far as stimulating and sustaining delusions of grandeur, it’s second only to cocaine and Ritalin.

If I couldn’t forget my troubles, then I could at least delude myself into thinking they were the dark origins of a budding genius, and not the predictable consequences of poor decisions.

And if perspective is what I required, then certainly the books I was reading could provide it. After all, if it was true that these reptilian aliens were abducting human beings and eating them alive, then by comparison my prematurely receding hairline was a minor issue.

So I’d usually grab a few New Age-y books off the shelf and retire to the café area, hopefully to a corner table, or any place where people were scarce.

But I had this problem: people tended to gravitate towards me, often in infuriating ways. Even if the café was empty, it wouldn’t be long before some dumb fuck took the table right next to mine. It was astonishing, and it never failed.

So I’d be forced to get up and wander around in search of another spot, my weird books tucked under my arm and a coffee in my hand. Typically I’d grab one of those small stools they had lying around, and I’d seek out an aisle that I expected to be empty — like the crocheting aisle for example — and I’d set up camp there.

But then, as if on cue, a family of six would arrive seeking out a gift for Grandma. “Do you think she’d like this one?” Mom would say. And of course, it’d be my luck that no one could agree on which book Grandma would like best, and a fifteen minute debate would ensue.

I’d sit there, trying to read my David Icke, but found concentration difficult amidst the hubbub and the crowd of dumpy asses in my face. Sure, the aisle was for crocheting enthusiasts — and not readers seeking solitude — but it still never failed to irk me when I was so rudely interrupted.

And this is the great bane of all reading and writing types — the quest for solitude. But, what the aspiring writer will eventually find out is that the type of solitude they seek is largely impossible. And the purpose of the quest isn’t necessarily to get them to perfect solitude anyway, but rather it’s one long training ground designed to teach the writer how to endure and navigate distraction, and keep pressing forward.

Because even in solitude the spirit of distraction will find you. The brain naturally rebels against all the focus and energy required for reading or writing, and that space is often exploited by this mischievous bastard.

He knows my weaknesses, and won’t allow me to read or write more than three paragraphs without filling my head with sexual imagery. “Remember that exquisite blowjob Beth Morgan gave you in 1997, in the hospital parking lot?” he’ll ask me.

And then he’s got me. It totally short circuits my focus, and suddenly I can only think about sex or sex-related stuff.

In alien abduction cases, there’s almost always this concept of “missing time” involved. Sometimes an abductee will experience the whole event as being five or ten minutes, when in reality hours have gone by, or longer. On the flip side, sometimes the abductee will imagine they’ve been on a spaceship for days, only to realize mere minutes have gone by.

My personal devil possesses this same brand of deceptive magic.

I might begin reading a book enthusiastically and earnestly, only to emerge from a horny haze fifteen minutes later…the book tossed carelessly to the floor, my pants around my ankles, and a cellphone resting on my chest displaying the title of whatever porn clip I’d been tricked into watching: “Hot Mom Gets Nailed by the New Neighbor.”

It’s like emerging from one of those daytime naps in a way. Groggy and thick-tongued, I’ll often wonder out loud, “What the hell just happened?”

And my personal devil will respond, “Don’t worry about it. Just roll over and have a nap. That was hard work, and you deserve a rest…”

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I discovered an interesting conspiracy-related long-form forum when I was 33, called Project Avalon.

I didn’t even know what a long-form forum was before that.

And I only joined because I thought you had to in order to see the latest video being offered by the owner - Bill Ryan - a compelling Brit man who interviewed whistle-blowers, government insiders, and so forth.

So it was all something of a mistake…

From the age of 33 to the age of 45 I wrote on the forum daily. And read.

I was teaching myself how to be a writer without even realizing it.

It took me about 12 years of practice before I was fully prepared to attempt something proper. And even then, I had to be nudged into it by another member, who insisted I try my luck on writing platforms like these (thank you Jess).

That forum was the perfect training ground.

And of course I’m leaving out many of the vital elements along the way, like the book my sister gave me when I was 22 that inspired me to not only write but expand my reading beyond the paranormal; the novella I wrote as a result; my sister reading that novella and telling me it reminded her of a particular writer; me reading that writer, and then discovering other writers as a result, and more writers still, until I finally found the book that hinted at the marriage between humor and “real literature” that I’d been seeking all along. It’s called “Journey to the End of the Night", and the author is Louis-Ferdinand Celine.

And I’m leaving out the heart condition I developed at age 27, which plagues me still, that often left me with just enough energy to read and little else…

So, how did I become a writer?

Well, it was a strange admixture of fate, mistakes, residual past life skill, a love of solitude, a desire to escape, a long-form forum, a timely book from my sister, a receding hairline, a heart ailment, depression, masturbation, Barnes & Noble, oceans of caffeine, deep neuroticism, and a belief — however deluded — that the alchemy involved in all these elements might just result in some kind of brilliance if I dedicated myself to finding out how.

I viewed writing as the vehicle that would allow me to not only transcend it all, but also offer redemption for a life that had so far been lived in mediocrity and failure.

I began writing to give my life meaning. And that’s why I continue.

But I’m 48 now and time is flying by. Or is it?

Sometimes it seems to be moving quite fast and sometimes quite slowly. My past is largely a blur, and looking back I can’t decide if it’s all taken place in 48 seconds or 48 years.

“Missing time”, you might even call it.

Time is elusive like that. All I know is that I feel a sense of urgency to get as many words down with whatever time I have left. And I’ll leave the rest up to fate, or aliens, or whatever name you wish to give to the force perpetuating all this mess…

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This discount approach doesn’t make my begging for money any more dignified, but it does seem more palatable to the reader here, who - after all - could just as easily read my crap for free. But if you feel at all moved to donate to the pitiful dream of a writer who hopes to do this for a living someday, God bless you.

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