I approach my sense of craft with alternating veneration and unselfconsciousness. I have all these fancy ideas about how writing out to be. Very cleverly and adroitly i put together a knot of interconnected ideas that seem veracious. And unconsciously, having absorbed this integument of my modus operandi, i trace out my narratives. I would like to believe that there is a causality between my conscious and my unconscious. The contemplation of this idea pleases me immensely. But ultimately i don't know. This could either augment an admission of limits or a freedom to sally forth and imagine superabundantly. I am inveterately wont to vacillate between the two.
I seek out interlocutors who are more extensions of myself than a disparate phalanx of people with differing points of view. I do listen, respectfully enough, inasmuch as listening implies a moment of suspension of loquacity. Subsequently i soldier on. I am certain that i bore my friends and acquaintances stiff with all this rationalization. Who am i seeking vindication from and why do i seek it? I could arrogate superiority to myself and sacrifice all compunction at the altar of art. Thus i could pay homage to the shrine of art. But i could write away copiously without being read. Mounds of paper accumulate ,wasting away, crumbling, moth eaten. I sense my creativity frittering away. And who cares a fart for art anyway?
So might a contemporary personage opine. When i can entertain and render nugatory the intermittent anxiety a suspension of triviality engenders why must i even write? What truth do i claim to have lain hold of which nobody but me sees as veracious. All the inwardness i could claim as authentic are the fruitless peregrinations of a self doubting mind, meandering unprofitably, alighting by chance on a putative nuance only to imbue it with the stain of my disordered, feverish thought process. I seem to poison everything i dwell on. It all seems incredibly meretricious. So ultimately when my own life and thought become insubstantial, dwindle into redundancy then does writing present not only a useful but a sublimatory palliation for this enervating ennui? Must i therefore protract my self induced torment knowing the inefficacious nature of its fruits.
However i choose to continue even while grave doubts about writing inundate me. It is the mechanism of habit, anesthetized by frenetic effort, crystallized by ceaseless ploughing on. And i sincerely hope that i can write in a state of blankness without these crippling insecurities invidiously inveigling. At the end i can only asseverate, and continual self questioning has rendered protean this very asseveration that perhaps unconsciousness is the only way to write, without expectation and partaking unremittingly of the sheer delight of writing. My inchoate sojourns into my fictional territories pile up as do rejection mails and letters. But at least the certitude that i leave behind a compendious remnant of my inner struggle will be a record for posterity, of vain striving and unremunerative effort, albeit undertaken in faithless sincerity. This keeps me going.