WRITING for the VOID

(UNFINISHED)

"Get a day job, make your money from that, and write to please yourself."


I hated my job. I kind of do still, but much less so. I dunno, you work somewhere for long enough you just end up feeling trapped, no matter what your job is, at least in my case. I've wanted to be a writer for a long ass time. Less specifically, I really wanted to tell stories, in the form of novels, video games, even a couple comics I drew in middle school back when I thought I wanted to be an artist as well. I've never finished anything. Not a single work. Maybe that's a sign of some sort of disorder, or depression or something, but for me, I think it always came back to my work being something like a method of escape. Not just escapism, but as a way to break free from all the bullshit we all gotta deal with when we sign that social contract as soon as we can manage to pull free our slimey, bloody little fingers from that putrid chasm (sorry, Mom). I had taken orders my whole life from people who couldn't trust me to do anything on my own. Never once was I allowed to explore or visit people or do things without adult supervision. We lived in a cul-de-sac which I wasn't even allowed to walk to the end of. I got grounded because I went to the neighbor kid's house to buy a lemonade not even a block away. The great pleasure of having parents who grew up in the Jehovah's Witnesses. I wanted to work for myself, and absolutely nobody else. I had enough of taking orders, like hell I was gonna go do four more years of school just to end up working for someone else's dime.
So instead, I skipped the four years and got plucked out of high school by a semi-truck dealership. I realize it was a tremendous opportunity, being able to skip trade school and get straight to making money shadowing real mechanics, but of course, I couldn't stand it. Something my ancestors with their coal-dusted lungs would have absolutely killed for, I couldn't help but despise. So what was wrong with me? Was I just lazy? An ingrate? Is this the natural result of telling a kid that they can be anything they want, from an astronaut to the president? Was I stupid? I dunno. I told my doctor and she prescribed me SSRIs, a pat on the shoulder, and a small dose of "you're gonna be fine, kiddo." Thanks, I guess.
Writing and storytelling, two things which are supposed to be enjoyable and rejuvinating became stressful and annoying, because, as a kid fresh out of high school, I was banking on writing saving me from wagedom, and as it turns out, when you first start at anything, you kinda suck dick at it. I began putting it off, never finishing anything, never even a first draft. It makes it easy to hate yourself, which I already was, so really it was just more fuel for the fire. I couldn't be fucked to find enjoyment in my current job, or find a new one, nor could I be bothered to take time out of my busy schedule of watching youtube and playing video games to come up with a piece of fiction I was proud of.
So, we're trying something new. We're attempting to reach...

the VOID

No more expectations. No more fantasying about a future I won't bother to manifest... This is the very bottom, the seeping black muck of ambition. As a writer, or an artist of any kind, really, your greatest muse is your trashcan.

Enter the Void... if you DARE...

My Stories (COMING SOON)
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