posted on July 08, 2013 10:42
Don’t look but I’ve been bringing you this brilliance for right about a year now. That’s right, for one solid year I’ve brought you around 160-columns, some arguably great, while most non-arguably horseshit.
Coming off of a long holiday weekend, and too lazy to come up with something new, as well as to celebrate my anniversary, I’m bringing back the column I see as “starting it all” for any of you new readers who weren’t graced with the pleasure of its’ first run, as well as my faithful KMFP-eople, who may want to reread my last of the 3-entries submitted in the contest format for this columnist job, which undeniably cemented my claim to the post.
Not to mention, this was always one of my favorites and this forum is fucking mine, people!
Enjoy…or look the fuck away.
“Writing on Writing”:
Writing is an art. That’s right dammit; I said it, “an art”. If some hipster douche bag can throw shit on a canvas or some protesting fuckwad can burn a flag and call it “art”, ANY writing can be labeled the same. Just like music, film, painting or poetry, writing is subjective, widely defined and, in the right circumstance or niche, can be supremely rewarding to both reader and writer.
InsideSTL is my niche, the niche of speaking the way people speak. It’s the niche of dick jokes and crude sexual innuendo that, contrary to the belief of some, is a part of our daily lives.
I make no excuses for being the “every-man”, my KMFP-eople. There’s something out there for everybody. Somebody paid Toby Keith to write that fucking “Solo Cup” song, people have been drooling over da Vinci’s shitty, overrated “Mona Lisa” for years and women everywhere are flicking their bean or riding the removable showerhead right this second to a book that’s no better written than the Penthouse Forum.
There’s an audience out there for everybody. Anybody with a pen, paper, keyboard or ball of shit rolled up in toilet paper and the bathroom wall to smear it on can perform the “art” of writing. Again, it’s part of the beauty.
The husband who pens a “roses are red” rip-off on his wife’s birthday card is a writer. The facebook poster opining on political issues is a writer. And the basement-dwelling, 30-year old who feigns toughness, confidence and attractiveness while tearing down anything anybody else writes from behind a dusty monitor in a soiled pair of 3-day skivvies is a writer, albeit, a pathetic one.
A beautiful writer is another story. A beautiful writer “can make you dizzy, like you’ve been drinking Jack and Coke all morning. They can make you feel high full of the single greatest commodity known to man – promise. Promise of a better day. Promise of a greater hope. Promise of a new tomorrow. This particular aura can be found in the gait of a beautiful writer. In their smile, in their soul, the way they make every rotten little thing about life seem like it’s going to be okay”.
And a beautiful writer can hijack that entire fucking paragraph from the movie “Beautiful Girls” with the majority of you out there none the wiser until they admit it. Because the great writer’s mind will roam at the drop of a hat and keep you on edge, wondering where the hell it’ll be going next.
While often a curse at the office or when desperately seeking those precious 3-hours of sleep, their mind is a wandering nomad of ideas and absolutely grand potential when harnessed correctly and finally finding the right outlet.
A wandering mind is never short of opinions or topics, which is the hardest thing about writing. I could write 13-of these a day, if I had the time to do so and, I shit you not, I’m not exaggerating in the slightest.
This is child’s play to me. My otherwise frightening mind is teeming with constant activity, delusion and grand expectations. Writing has been my freedom from things that have driven weaker men to very dark places of the world and the other end of a rope or revolver.
Writing, for me, has saved many a coworker, commuter and neighbor FROM me. And, most importantly, it’s saved me from me.
Writing is my world and the rest of you just play in it. A great writer not only plays to their audience, but delivers their audience, if only for 10-goddamned minutes, from the rut of an office, houseful of screaming kids or bottom of the liquor bottle, to a place far, far away.
It can be the breathtaking scene of a land you’ll never physically see or the broken glass, and broken dreams, of a heroin den in the darkest parts of your own city, just miles up the road, but you’re there and I’ve taken you there.
I could write you a poem that made you think I was the most romantic man on this planet and that any woman graced by my presence was pampered with attention, gifts and admiration. I could write you a “dyed in the wool” recap of the latest sporting event that took place so detailed that you could recount it to your coworker and lie to say you’d actually been there, like approximately 750-thousand people did after Game-6 of the 2011-World Series.
And then, I could turn around and write you the most vile and blasphemous piece of hateful shit you’d ever laid your eyes on, and were embarrassed to have even done so, that would have you appalled at the revelation that I actually raise and coach children.
In the hands of a great writer, the adult mind becomes that of a child, going in whichever direction we decide to pull it. Great writing is power. Great writing is mimicry, pageantry and, most frequently, fear. Fear of the unknown, the untested and the unrealized. Fear of failure and fear of rejection.
I’m a great fucking writer. Get over the insecurity I’ve hidden with arrogance and admit you were moved by one little iota of what you’ve just read and you’ll realize it’s the truth. It’s the truth to me and to those who’ve followed me, and that’s true enough.
Make no mistake, there are other writers out there who have a lot of talent, and I’m sure they have an audience somewhere…but insideSTL is my goddamned audience.
“You issue a challenge, yeah, you do it up; step to the stage – too late, I blew it up.”…KMFP-out!
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