Pecuniary conditions necessitate, for me, given my exiguous financial means, the unamiable taking on of projects i deem disagreeable. Given that my fiscal uncertainty is prompted by the indeterminacy of freelancing which, considering my conscious choosing of it, and a choice which was exercised by free will and not by necessitous circumstances, or at least circumstances as devolved as a result of my choice, i felt it incumbent to write this piece. My heart was not in it nor did i feel any inner prompting to unravel ideas. So i faced this abyss of non creativity and the absence of the muse. The writing i was to elucidate as a maxim given it was a set of guidelines on how to publish, enervated me immeasurably. While i could be unembarrassed about the material recompense the writing would guarantee i deemed the writing of this meretricious ,platitudinous discourse as an insult to the venerable creativity at whose altar i was wont to prostrate hoping, for that imaginative apotheosis that would culminate in materializing the masterpiece that was immanent in me.
I sat before the screen with a seeming appearance of imperturable gravity. In point of fact my mind was unfocused, my imagination at a point of unmitigated stasis. I was in a blank state of unconsciousness. My mind was in that limbo where thought becomes thoughtlessness and ruminating becomes nothingness. I could neither summon up the imaginative manoeuvring to do my task unobjectionably nor dish up a mediocre offering to palliate my lack of commitment.In short i allowed myself the indulgence of luxuriating in a state of non being.
But such a submergence was unaccustomed ,even for one such as me, with my rhapsodic meanderings . I wanted to earn this money to buy a few books to irrigate my fallow imagination. I had chanced upon, at the bookshop, a volume of pessoa i desired. So inveterately and inevitably i forced my blank mind into pixels of dreary writing. I sought to give form to my convolutions. The fact that i was a small scale writer did not perturb me because hardships ensured an experience i could transmit in the hope of it being related to. But where i faltered was the accoutrements of success i was expected to elucidate. The precarious publishing world would obviate the idealism of any young writer and the unmeritorious proliferation of execrable writings render any artist, with implicit belief in art, thoroughly disenchanted. I had been through the treadmill myself. Its recondite but disagreeable rituals were familiar with me. What was surprising, was the occasional spurt of good writing which renewed my faith that talent couldn't remain unconcealed.
Not that i deemed myself capable of great talent. I was part of the ebb and flow of a literary consciousness which swallowed some writers whole and spat them out unceremoniously. I had the streak of mediocrity necessary to write sordidly or in pastiche form. I could descend lower to restitute my shaky finances. But i soldier on hoping that my own profferings would make an impact. The moment of transcendence seemed both indwelling and unattainable. Meanwhile i have this piece to write. I will bring to this article, all the artistic integrity i can muster despite the tawdry nature of its essence. For the moment, the apotheosis, in my own aegis, this will inveigle, with a certain measure of self complicity, shall be a momentary compensation.