Why I write

I asked myself that question. "Why write? What topic, stumbling aimlessly in my mind, is so important that it must see the light of day? If the topic is even remotely interesting, am I even qualified to tell it in such a way that does it any sort of creative justice?" Obviously, there are no simple answer to these questions. What I do know is that I want to do it. The journey of 1,000 miles and all...There are a host of topics that could be combined up there. Black vampire who writes health care policy? Sure. I guess. Introverted and failed writer who reads other peoples stories for inspiration? Been done before. One of my favorite T.V. series from the 1990's is "Red Shoe Diaries." This isn't so much because it introduced me to the nude female form in the comfort of my own home at such a tender young age, but more so because I liked David Duchovny's character. He's puts an ad out in one of the local newspapers asking women to send him erotic stories from their own lives. Each episode is each letter. Upon the conclusion of each episode, he quips, to his trusty canine companion, some unspoken, yet clearly obvious, observation about the letter before finishing his walk. Although the premise for the show can be seen as unrealistic, i found myself drawn to his character. His fiancee committed suicide, so he fills the void left by his wife's death with stories from other women, with the idea being that he could figure out what he did wrong, presumably so he can recognize warning signs in the future.

What does any of this have to do with writing? I suppose the idea of a loner who takes an outside view of all that's going on around him, praying that he goes unnoticed is kind of appealing. There's something innately appealing to me about detaching myself from reality and posing questions; on the world, the people in it, the sick and stupid shit they do, the absolutely wonderful things they do and everything in between, to readers. Here's what's sick about this whole scenario. Despite the fact that I view myself as more of a loner than is actually true, I want to be extensively read in literary circles world-wide. To add another dimension to this whole world within my head, I want my work to be seen as this dirty little literary secret too. I want to be known as a writer's writer who actually appeals to the masses. It would be like if MeShell Ndegeocello were to actually be extremely popular and well played rather than the, relatively, unnoticed musical genius that she is. These delusions of future literary grandeur are keeping me up late and preventing me from getting the rest needed to do my job tomorrow, not to mention getting a policy brief completed before tomorrow evening for my Health Disparities course. Or maybe what's keeping me up late at night is figuring out what kind of dog I want to walk as my character's reads letters from bored and lonely women while trying to figure out where he went wrong. If you've actually taken the time to read this through, then i'll let you be the judge.