"Why write? Why do anything? But specifically, why write? What's the point anymore? It's not even that. So much has been said already over the years that we have completely ignored. Perhaps it would be best for everyone to stop everything for just one year and catch up on the past thousands of years of writing. Not a rereading of the classics or anything like that but reading of essays and direct fiction that represents real life. Reading the words of Czech writers in the 60's opens our eyes to the horrors of the soviet empire while also showing the working class there fighting against them for true socialism. The words of people who can't hawk their book idea to a publisher and pump out 50 thousand copies. That is the only way we can understand where we are at and how we got there. Why, or better yet, how, could one even think of writing at such a time like this when we all now have access to a vastly wider range of these writings?"
"uhm, what?" I said.
"what is the point of being a writer when what you want to say has already been said? At this point, we're just re-contextualizing everything from the past to fit our times but not putting out anything new. Why else do you think books and movies are being remade with contemporary situations at such a ridiculous rate?"
"Lazy?" I say.
"No man no way. It's way more than that. I just think it's barbaric to produce something new when so much is out there already. The point of making art is for it to be experienced! otherwise you could just keep that shit in your head and be done with it. It's like people who have kids when 500,000 of them in this country alone are in foster care or the whole rest of the world which is filled with dying kids."
"Why don't you adopt one?" I say.
"Fuck kids. Monsters. All of them. Cheers." he says as he stands and walks out of the bar door. He didn't pay for his drink or the shot he got me.
I look down at the open notebook and just stare. I stare for at least 10 minutes before someone puts I Fall to Pieces by Patsy Cline on the jukebox. What hope is left when even events that seem like they only happen in movies are no longer exciting or adventurous but bleak and filled with open ended questions not desiring a response. Jesus, we're all falling to pieces.
"uhm, what?" I said.
"what is the point of being a writer when what you want to say has already been said? At this point, we're just re-contextualizing everything from the past to fit our times but not putting out anything new. Why else do you think books and movies are being remade with contemporary situations at such a ridiculous rate?"
"Lazy?" I say.
"No man no way. It's way more than that. I just think it's barbaric to produce something new when so much is out there already. The point of making art is for it to be experienced! otherwise you could just keep that shit in your head and be done with it. It's like people who have kids when 500,000 of them in this country alone are in foster care or the whole rest of the world which is filled with dying kids."
"Why don't you adopt one?" I say.
"Fuck kids. Monsters. All of them. Cheers." he says as he stands and walks out of the bar door. He didn't pay for his drink or the shot he got me.
I look down at the open notebook and just stare. I stare for at least 10 minutes before someone puts I Fall to Pieces by Patsy Cline on the jukebox. What hope is left when even events that seem like they only happen in movies are no longer exciting or adventurous but bleak and filled with open ended questions not desiring a response. Jesus, we're all falling to pieces.
