The Unlikeable Writer

First I should apologize. My uncle is a writer, and for that I'm sorry. I'm sorry if you've encountered him and he's put you down.

Writers are usually invisible. If we're lucky to have supportive parents, then great. Mine weren't supportive. My interest in storywriting was to them hopefully a phase. I mean every kid has an imagination and creates. That's what lego is for; that's what Barbie dolls are for. But I mean to actually do this as a career? Naturally there is more to the story, and one of these days I will write that story. I have part of it written down, but it's not the whole story. Basically, my parents hoped I would choose something more lucrative and more professional. Yes, there are professional writers, and yes, writing is a profession, but they were hoping for something more traditionally professional, like a doctor, a lawyer, or a teacher. Something with more weight to it. Or maybe even a business person.

So yes, I was very happy when I found out my uncle was a writer. I wanted to be one. Not so much because he was one, but because I wrote stories. Then after elementary school, I stopped because of my lack of support from parents and peers too. (Of course, I had never stopped creating, so in a sense that writing drive never died). Then after high school, that writing bug was still there and I wanted to write and I did. I kept my work hidden. I chose to go into teaching, but still, I took a writing course on the side. It was an option. Now I'm not a teacher and I'm a writer. The friends I had during high school aren't my friends. Some of my family aren't my family. Of course, I have new friends, and now I have supportive writing friends. This is more than ten years after high school. Forget about the friends I had in elementary. I had at the most two.

What's my point in telling you all this? Writers come from humble circumstances. At least most do. A lot of people don't get us, or understand us. We read people nobody's ever heard of. Bukowksi, Kerouac? Who? Yes, they're famous, but you'd be surprised how many people don't know who those people are. My parents don't, my family doesn't. Most of my "friends" don't. If someone I met from high school comes along and I say something along the lines of "My writing is sort of like Kerouac's." There reply is "Cool. Who's Kerouac?" And it's only cool because now that we're out of high school, they're not cool anymore, so they want to get into my good graces, but that's for another blog entry one day.

My slave labour job, nobody knows who Kerouac is. The people I serve don't know who Kerouac is. Are they stupid? No. They're not in the same world I am, and my world is really really small compared to their world. That's what writers have to live with. Most of us have nobody who shares our passion or understands why we would wake up at 2am just to read a poem. I mean why would you read a poem? You did that in high school. It's like gym class. You do it once, just to get your high school credits, after that fuck that shit.

My uncle grew up poor, but he wrote, and after he became successful, he forgot where he came from. He forgot the struggles, in fact, ignores them. He becomes unnerved when a restaurant doesn't have a real tablecloth on it. Becomes unnerved if the pizza isn't like the pizza he got in Italy. I mean, my goodness, just be thankful you're getting pizza, or getting food. Be grateful you have food on your plate because there were days when you didn't have food on your plate. As writers, we're thankful, we're grateful. We're grateful when people read our work. He's expectant. You have to read his work because it's the best. If he's the best, then I'm the best. I mean really, screw that crap, because the best are those whom we follow or model. People like Hemingway, or Tolstoy. To me, those are the best, and those we can never hope to emulate.

With so many talented people, writers are grateful when someone comes up to them, holds the book in their hand and asks a writer to sign it. I know I am. I mean you chose to pass that new Stephen King book. I mean wow. I mean why? Stephen King is awesome! You wanted to try something new? And you liked what you read? Well, I thank you, dear reader, I really thank you! Because I'm a poor boy and nobody loves me, but you made my day, like that kid who's on the street selling lemonade that nobody really wants to buy and if someone does buy it, they either know the kid, or just trying to make the kid feel better. Writers are like that kid with the lemonade.

So if you're going to be a writer, remember where you came from. Remember all the hard work you've done. Remember all the people who've helped you obtain your success; and help people obtain success. Don't just turn up your nose at everyone and hang out with losers who do the same. Just because you're rich doesn't mean you're cool, just makes you a stuck-up bitch.

Bus Ride

Yesterday I'm on the bus unfortunately. It was going to work again. It was the day time, but at least it was Saturday. Saturday you get some of the evening customers rolling in. The bus was semi-crowded. Semi-crowded is basically not packed, but most of the seats are taken. I was able to find one of those side seats on the back and it was really comfortable. That was wear I read my book. I enjoy reading on the bus, but I don't enjoy those sad faces or miserable faces I see. Maybe mine is one of those? There was a poem by Ezra Pound:

The apparition of the faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

Something like that, might have messed that up real bad and if I did, sorry Mr. Pound. I think that poem was called Station in the Metro. I did it in school years ago...god, like more than 10 years ago that's for sure. 1992 maybe.

This one lady who wasn't sitting too near me. She was in one of those regular facing seats, still near the back and she was frowning and teenagers to her left play fighting. One guy dropped his keys while he was lightly slapped in the back as the slapping teen flew to another seat closer to the back door. The teen who was slapped put his iPod back together (rich spoiled motherfuckers if you ask me, which makes me sound like an old person). I saw his keys, and so did the lady. The lady told him about the keys. He picked it up, then moved to where his friend was. The bus stopped at the bus station and people got off. The bus got less congested but I had to move to one of the facing seats, which was worse for me because I ended up sitting behind the frowning lady and that felt so congested. I was able to read, but it was better in the seat I was previously in. Maybe that's what I get for being greedy? Should've stuck to the side seat. Sure it's weird, but at least it made me feel better.

We're riding along and some lady in a dress, lady with a bad figure, but she was probably old as well, so that's to be expected. Anyway, she was hoeing her lawn or something. That was a sad sight for me. It meant summer was coming. Then I see a couple of guys fixing a fence.

The mall was even worse. Mother's Day capitalism? Consumerism! That's the word I'm looking for. Everywhere stores are telling you what to buy for Mother's Day. And this isn't the regular flowers or jewelry stuff, this is weird shit. Like Aprons which say "Kiss Your Mother" or stuffed animals which aren't bad, but some have writing on it and it's not the traditional "I love Mom". It's something else and I didn't bother looking at it. It was...shameful. What has the world become when people actually buy this shit? They buy it, the mother gets it, happy for a day, then tosses it.

Christmas I can sort of understand, but Mother's Day? Whatever happened to just getting a card for your mother, or flowers or candy...or a mug which says I love Mom, or even taking your mother out for dinner? I mean are you so strapped for time that you have to buy one of these lame gifts?? I think you are. Nowadays people don't have a brain, the stores tell you what they know you should buy. Not think you should buy. Don't be so complacent, these guys are brainwashers. There's a science to this stuff, they do studies. Don't blame the little sales clerk in The Bay who thinks he or she is hot shit just because he or she is working in a respectably known sales outlet. It's the head head people. These sales clerks are just what Bukowski refers to as "wage-slaves". 9 to 5, Monday to Friday. Though nowadays people almost work 7 days.

Other than that, the ride home was decent and then once I got home I got to really get cracking on writing my script (for Script Frenzy).

And now, I'm back to today where I have to get ready for work. Today is Sunday. As far as my uncle goes, I hadn't really thought about him. I guess that's good, means things are getting better.