Read Me Like A Book

 

                                                       photo courtesy of edudemic.com

It dawns on me as of this writing that a creative outlet is what I need to thrive. Blogging has always been a nice hobby, something to give me an avenue to express myself, get my thoughts out there for anyone that cared to take a look. 

It grew from the seed implanted when I first began writing sports related articles for my college newspaper. Somewhere in between I had a little blog that I posted some sports articles on, and within a week or so, I was asked to write under the mantle of Bleacher Report. Almost four years later, I am now a Featured Columnist for the website, and can boast of impressive read totals for each article that I post. 

But my love for the written word has always been devoted more to the creative, fictional side of things than hard and serious news stories. My old laptop is filled with files of random and useless short stories. There may even be one or two (maybe five) half-written novels on the hard-drive as well. Nothing worth mentioning here, but a lot of time and effort went into those writings.

Now as I sit here tapping away at the keyboard, I'm struck by an almost profound sense of loss. The loss of not having some of those writings to simply look over and laugh at how stupid I could have been t write those things. How poorly written they were. Even the ridiculous subject matter (one of which included a duck that a little boy believed to be his grandfather). 

But the loss is mainly in wondering if I can ever get back the magic that I sometimes felt when writing. There were times when I felt as if electricity was coursing through my veins as I wrote.

I haven't felt that way in a long time. But something tells me that the feeling is going to be making a comeback sometime very soon.

The Destination Of Inspiration

                                                 photo courtesy of www.biography.com

It's not secret to anyone that my love affair with Charles Bukowski is paramount to all other literary figures. It was him that inspired me to begin writing in the first place. It has now been a ten-plus year journey that has had its ups and downs.

I've never really been able to relate to why Hank always struck a chord with me, but ever since an introduction to literature course I took my second semester in college, I was hooked by his words, which at many times could be lovingly described as vulgar.

And maybe that's why I always related to him. Not that I'm a pervert, or degenerate, but boiling things down to their lowest common denominator has always been my calling card. Why waste time and energy being indirect. 

It's best to speak in a no-nonsense manner. And if people don't agree, I think Bukowski would probably call them full of shit and throw a punch. 

Which might not be MY style, but the part about being blunt certainly rings true. It was put to me a couple of weeks ago by a friend that I generally "give zero fucks."

There is a level of honesty in his writings that simply led me to fall in love instantaneously. Vulgarity and subject matter aside, the guy knew how to tell a story. I'd love to say that I could carry that mantle into my generation, but at the end of the day, it might be hard since my parents don't constantly beat each other, my car runs perfectly and I only enjoy the occasional drink. 

Even so, it's something to shoot for.

Taking my cues from a guy that said that one of the keys to life was "to fuck a great many women," and wrote countless stories of brutal violence and blackout drinking might not be something that many people would expect from me. And despite the fact that he seemed to be an abusive alcoholic, and lived a life of pain and suffering, there was a great beauty in his written words. And clearly I'm not the only one that thinks so. To wit, Bukowski is now regarded as an essential figure in the genre of literature.

Which in the end is not too bad for a guy whose tombstone reads "Don't try."