John 17:5 And now, O Father, glorify thou me with thine own self with the glory which I had with thee before the world was.
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Just when you think someone cares...***
Have you ever been writing until your fingers bled, anxiously anticipated sharing only to find that nobody really cares about your writing? Today I’m going to throw myself a pity party with hats, balloons, streamers and noisemakers, yeah especially noisemakers. You’re all invited to come, but no one will show, it’ll just be me, a woman and her thoughts.
I have this quote it goes something like, “Thank your readers and the critics who praise you, and then ignore them. Write for the most intelligent, wittiest, wisest audience in the universe: Write to please yourself. ~Harlan Ellison, and really that is all we’re doing because nobody really cares what you write.
We can pretend, we can read what others write, we can comment out our gazoos, or not, but what it really boils down to is, nobody gives a flying fig. Everyone cares about himself or herself, and everything else is just there, a fly on the wall being looked at ready to swat it out of the way first chance you get.
I feel my writing has been put on hold while I take care of everyone else. I throw myself into situations of aiding and forget that sometimes I am the one who needs the assistance. Does anybody care? Does anyone know that this is what’s happening to me? No, of course not because they are busy obsessing and consuming themselves with themselves. Selfishly devouring all that they can muster while a withered leaf gets tossed under the snow mound. They are a sort of self mutilating cannibal, eating and drinking of whatever it is that THEY have to
offer/want/need and forget about the lil guy or in this case, gal.
Today is the day (okay I tell myself this all the time) that I am going to put a halt to my placating of others and tend to my own needs. I’m going to be a self mutilating cannibal and consume myself, with myself, remembering those that forgot me and forgetting those that pretended to remember me.
Sometimes it scares me to be a writer.
“From the earliest records of ancient civilizations to the most recent works produced by modernity, the history of literature bears witness to the creative power of the human mind. We have before us a vast library of stories, plays, and poetry to enjoy at our leisure, but in some cases this creativity came with a price – the life of the creator.” Ketterer Brandt
From Hemmingway to Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf to John Kennedy Toole all authors who decided maybe writing just wasn’t in the cards for them. The list is long, the lives are many, writers write because they love to write, they die, because maybe they were faced with cannibals too.
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From Lord of the Rings ~ J.R.R. Tolkien’s work
Sam: Do you remember the Shire, Mr. Frodo? It'll be spring soon and the orchards will be in blossom, and the birds will be nesting in the hazel thicket. And the whistle in the summer barley in the Lower fields. And eating the first of the strawberries with cream. Do you remember the taste of strawberries?
Frodo: No, Sam. I can't recall the taste of food, nor the sound of water, nor the touch of grass. I'm naked in the dark. There's nothing--no veil between me and the wheel of fire. I can see him with my waking eyes.
