I’m No Phony

Let’s get something straight, I’m a writer.  Though, I’m considered different because I live a semi normal life.  Take Thompson for example: a lonely, desperate man who wanted attention and the love of a true caring father.  He took that desperation and rung out the water on his hair to fuel his burning passion for writing.  Or we’ve got King whose father left at an early age, or Hemingway with war trauma, or Fitzgerald with alcoholism and triumphant depression.  Those guys have cracked the code for writing, publishing, and writing more.  They lived in a world where men weren’t supposed to extract their feelings and elaborate to someone else; they were supposed to ball it up into a red capsule and gulp it down dry for it to be shit out twelve hours later.  Those guys knew how to write, because they had that semipermeable sense of mind that could drive me hysterically mad; they knew that their childhood wasn’t the healthiest, and almost infected the world with their problems.  Besides the occasional slap on the wrist I received when I broke something or went somewhere unsupervised, I had a pretty alright childhood.  It was normal.  It’s as if I don’t have the proper outlook on writing as others did and do.  Of course, writers nowadays are more prone to have a healthier lifestyle and be more in control of their senseless bodies, which makes them good, but not as good as those hardboiled dicks (and by “dicks” I don’t mean the nickname for P.I’s, I mean the word that represents the male genitalia).  I’m a writer; I think I’ve made that pretty clear.  Working diligently on my first collection of short stories and now currently a quarter through my new novel that I started a week ago, I’m slowly gaining to that crown; the prized jewel on top of the pyramid.  My hands are sore, my brain is numb, my feet are crippled, my back is crooked.  God help me.  Seventeen years has taught me that we’re getting softer; that can’t happen just yet; I’d rather be dead first, then they can proceed with that embarrassing escapade.  This new novel is mostly romance, with some literary sprinkles, because I’m not really sure how to classify something of this high magnitude.  It’s something that I’ve grown to use for versatility, but it’s odd; I’m not usually writing this kind of pulp that Roberts does.  Yet, I’m adding my flair to a story; nothing ever seems to change when I write.  I’ve been called the “modern day King” by a handful of people, but that title is something I don’t take lightly.  If I were to be compared to anyone, and have the ability to look back at a person’s life and say I did that to an extent and amounted to just the same amount of fame, it would have to be Fitzgerald.  He’s not prolific, but profound—at least for his generation.  Back then, a writer could be a job, but was still laborious work.  A short story writer was about as rare as loose candy in a woman’s purse; they were seldom present, but they were damn near close by all of the time.  I do mostly short stories and find it to be an ever so drifting away lost art; I have high regards for people like King, Faulkner, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Oates, O’Connor, Crane, and Bradbury.  I almost am tired of saying those three names over and over again.  I’ve read exactly one book from each of Papa, Faulk, and Fitzy and can obviously applaud them for their obscurities, but in the end, there’s more than meets the eye in the world of 1920s-1960s writing.  I’m young and haven’t experienced homelessness or alcoholism or drug addiction or house eviction or tax evasion or grocery shopping or bankruptcy, but I’m ready to fight.  Life is inevitable, I know that, but it’s the idea that makes you want to lick the air for any hints of the next day.  The air can reek of turmeric and bitter salts; it’s a dryer gas leak.  As I write this, it’s September; I become an adult in 6 1/2 months.  I love writing so much; I wish it were a person so I could get married and know that she’s always got my back.  I’m expressive and deep and connotative and obscure and ludicrous and spasmodic, but one thing I am not is a phony.  I’ve had my experiences with writing just as much as any struggler, but I’m no goddamned phony.  You can take my crummy Hamiltons and Benjamins and stroll your hardheaded ass down to the closest Bank of America and provide that opening line to any one of the tellers; they’ll look at you crooked and realize that you are for saying so.  Goddamnit, you’ll say.  I’m gaudy in my writing, and fruitful and prolific and careful, not what I am not is a phony.  That’s the worst sort of derogatory slur that can be spoken to any down to earth, holier-than-thou writer who wants to improve his craft and implore for deeper knowledge.  He’s responsible for creating, corrupting, and callously addressing insecurities for characters that are just the same as that writer.  If creating a world where nothing is right and everything is wrong, but it seemed right and wrong, then I guess he’s a phony.  That ain’t me however; I’m no phony.