If I want to be honest and authentic and uniquely myself, I should probably stop thinking about it.
I want to be happy. And I sure as hell know better than to tear that down into making sure I look happy, making sure people interpret what I do as happy. If I want to be happy I have to do it and not give a damn if people think about it otherwise, because I know what makes me happy. Simple.
I guess that’s where it gets finicky when it comes to writing. Making stuff is hard work. It takes a lot of work to even think about making something, so by that time it’s already daunting to find a place to start, at least to some extents, even with simple things.
And then the acknowledgement of okay, I want to make something worthwhile and quality, knowing I enjoy trying to smush in some literary merit and I have fun making that kind of stuff. And then.
I’m so fucking goddamn busy, if I want to make something quality that requires thought and time and effort I better make sure this is worth it. So I better not waste my time and I better make an outline and know what I’m writing about. And make sure I hit these literary points that I am interested in putting in because I genuinely want to.
Then it starts feeling fake.
(Which, again, is a sort of pervasive feeling that tries to tell me I shouldn’t be writing these essays and that I should pretend to be clueless to my interest in literary musings. Yes, again I’ve reached this topic. Shocking.)
I still don’t get it.
There is the thought that I should not strive to be thought-provoking and deep and artistic because that would be grandiose and pretentious and fake.
And yet I love thought-provoking things.
This circle makes absolutely no sense to me.
(So of course I am writing a stream of consciousness about it.)
My main principle on the active practice of being happy is to stop thinking about stopping to smell the roses and actually smelling the goddamn roses.
Stop telling yourself to do things and start remembering why you do them. Stop remembering why you do things and start feeling why you do them.
Maybe it’s a matter of cutting out the over-analyst. Maybe it’s a voice from pressures I’ve picked up from society around me.
It must work for some people, to sit down and outline these things, and I don’t think it even negates the authenticity. Art takes thought, it’s silly to deny that.
But I hope that I can throw this out the window and just start hacking away at the keyboard without worrying about how am I going to make this express x, y, and z in a clever way and trust myself that my interest in these things is innate enough to build itself. Think about it a bit, instead of obsessively worry about is this sex scene demonstrating important character interaction or is this just porn?
On my death bed I’m sure I’d be glad if I chose to write the smut even if I had no literary justification whatsoever.
It’s been a long time since I’ve written fiction, and picking it back up has made it feel like such an inorganic process (and as we can conclude from maybe three essays and counting, I have no idea why it feels that way now).
I ought to stop worrying about how artistically my prose captures themes that interest me and start trusting myself that writing is inherently my medium of choice to explore these ideas. So I really just ought write more porn.