Toilet ruminations #21

Why do I bother? I don’t know about this literature thing. Why do I pursue literature? Why do I want to be a writer and artist? Seems like at this point there are better things I could do with my time. Maybe I am being judgmental but seems like most writers I know are pathetic people. Withdrawn, solitary and broke. They walk through life alone and have a slew of mental health issues. How about the several authors you know who have published many books and are broke? What is the point of this whole thing? What are we doing? Not many people care about the writers that I know. They live in obscurity. But yet they write and read all the time. They live to be writers and artists. But they are broke and middle-aged. It doesn’t make sense to me to work so hard at something that just leaves you broke and obscure. I understand that there is an inner purpose. An inner meaning that comes from being a writer and artist. One is not motivated by the need to make money. One is motivated by the need to create their ideas into something material. To have their vision manifested in words and images. But still this almost always leaves a person broke and alone. Why pursue this path? Why not pursue things that will give you more resources and social credibility? So you can live a life where you have money, access to resources and credibility. Besides literature can be such an arrogant craft. These writers and artists and poets that you know can be so bitter, judgmental and arrogant. So full of themselves. Buzz kills. They think they are the coolest shit in town. Very set in their worldviews. It can be an ugly thing. Do you really want to be like that? Literature does this to people. It makes them very arrogant. Intellectual elitists. Broke snobs. They cut themselves off from the world. But most of the world is dumb, corrupt and evil so maybe literature is the weapon used to fight against the mass idiocy. Writers, artists and poets are soldiers fighting against the norm. This is why they are arrogant, judgmental and disdainful. They are at war against the norm. Against stupidity and social conditioning. But still this war just leaves artists, writers and poets to be broke and poor. Seems like an extreme trade-off. I don’t know if I want to do it anymore. Sometimes I think it would be easier to give up the need to make art and write, just work my job, make money, live my life and read on my down time. I will just be a reader and let others live the impoverished literary life. Seems like there is more dignity in this approach to life. But I keep writing. I keep pursuing the literary dream. I cannot seem to stop even though I am aware it may no longer be good for me.

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