Why become a writer
Why would anyone in the right frame of mind want to be a writer? In my opinion this is the best question ever asked and the answers seem like a myriad of non-sequiturs. It is a known fact among the literati that writers lead multiple lives. It is no secret that writers are anarchists, loners, introverts, moody, and suicidal. Writers unabashedly have a special relationship with food. They can eat when they ‘re not hungry and starve themselves when famished. Writers have an extreme obsession with alcohol that often leads to delirium. Writers have an inextricable relationship with themselves yet they spend most of their grown up life hating themselves. Usually when old age kicks and they live to tell their story and it’s always about death and unrequited love. Writers don’t have a relationship with anyone else in the conventional sense of the word.
There is one strike that does go in writer’s favor though- Writers do get laid often but if you were to ever do a lay on lay comparative analysis with a football player no guessing who’d win hands down and feet up. But if you are a writer and a woman then you have to confront the diabolical insinuation that women can’t be taken seriously as writers. And women writers don’t get laid as often as their counterparts largely because they spend most of their time making their words look good while rest of their body parts atrophy.
So why does one really want to become a writer? A wise man once said, writing is a lot like prostitution. First you do it for love, and then for a few close friends, and then for money. Perhaps not fully but in parts this psychological autopsy into a writers mind seems acceptable but it still doesn’t explain extended hours of self-flagellation that writers inflict upon themselves albeit with an imaginary whip.
In an excerpt from his play Shakespeare chronicles the seven ages of man. In Act II, Scene 7 of the play “As you like it,” the jaded, cynical and melancholy Jaques outlines what he sees as the seven ages of man, opening with these famous lines:
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
Even the most widely read writer couldn’t figure out why anyone would want to become a writer in the first place. This remains a moot point. But every writer even the ones who go to Belize to write a story about the apocalypse have at one time or another considered imaginative ways of putting their imagination to sleep. Sometimes dying is not the threat, but the promise. So I decided to celebrate these misfits who struggle all their life for the right words in the right order by shooting myself. Was I successful? That depends entirely upon my imagination.