One of the most important lessons I’ve ever learned is to see the world through a child’s eyes; open, reflective, honest, eager and bright eyed–dying to know how things work, why things happen the way they do and so forth–to maintain an interrogative state of mind. And then the real world stabs you in the heart. It’s happened to me a thousand times over and I perpetually fight my own cynicism . . . constantly.

I remember when I first began blogging and I knew nobody. Then I made a few friends who left me comments–how wonderful that felt, to have someone read what I wrote. Soon enough, that same cynicism seeped through the cracks. Certain aspects of blogging have really gotten under my skin, just as in life–you see things for what they are and maybe you don’t like it. Social networking, especially all the new fads like Twitter and the endless onslaught of facebook addons have really made me gag. Do I really need to know what 4000 people had for breakfast, lunch and dinner? What song they’re listening to? The latest geek craze? Who sucks? Who is cool? No. It is enough to drive me insane. I don’t care.

Once I’ve written about a subject several times, it’s played out and I have to move on. I’ve written a lot about depression, mostly because I’ve suffered horrendous depression throughout my life–but I’m not depressed anymore. I’m not used to not feeling like this. This is the longest period of time I have felt well in my entire life . . . and it scares me. I’m supposed to feel bad. I’m supposed to be mad at the world. I’m supposed to be filled with envy and fear–but I am not. I may sound cynical, but it’s different now–I actually feel positive.

Bloggers come and go

It really sucks when you get to know a hundred bloggers who leave thousands of comments and one year later? They are gone. They stop blogging or delete their blog. They get a new profile, get new friends and never come back. I know probably 40 people who were close friends until they decided to make money on line–they get new make money on line friends, eliminating all other relationships. One of my closest blogging buddies–who shall remain nameless–stopped replying to comments one day. I thought maybe he was dead, but he kept on blogging and just stopped visiting other people . . . period. Amazingly, his blog is still going strong even though he never replies to anyone and never reads other blogs that I know of–or does in private.

All I really want

All I really want in blogging is to have good friendships, especially ones who will actually read my work and comment on what I wrote–and to do the same for them. I’m so over writing about blogging, blogging tips and all those subjects I’ve grown to despise.

As I’ve become more interested in more serious writing, I find myself at a strange crossroads. I have some really good friends here and I appreciate them immensely. I’m changing. My interests are changing. I want–oh how I hate that phrase. It makes me feel greedy–like one of those make money on line bloggers interested in a specific type of traffic. I don’t want comments like, “You are a great writer,” or “You are awesome,” or anything like that. I want real feedback, not endless compliments. I would almost rather be told, “You suck and I loathe your every word…LOL.” I cannot complain too much, I’ve had many, many deep discussions–and for that, I am truly thankful.

Bizarre content

I sometimes feel like a societal reject. My idea of creative, or what constitutes good or talented doesn’t mesh with the norm. I’ve struggled with this for years. All those considered great in music, art and literature is simply popular consent. In my world, popular doesn’t mean great.

Conformity makes you a robotic writer

Conformity makes you a robotic writer

I’m a musician–a jazz-rock guitarist actually–and in guitar circles, the best guitarists are never the ones getting credit for being great. They generally don’t have number one singles and are usually unknown, except in the guitar/musician community. The best songs are usually the ones that didn’t make it on the radio. In the jazz world, popular music is often considered the only music you don’t want to listen to. But as a musician, I am biased towards those who have compositional genius or are masters of improvisation. When I listen to music, I don’t know or listen to lyrics–I listen to the music. When I hear a great singer, the words are irrelevant to me–all I hear is the musical melody and how it intertwines in the chords and rhythm–it’s just the way my brain is wired.

I often wonder why I write what I do. Why do I write horrific stories? Grotesque Stories? One thing I know is it’s not for shock content, though some may disagree. I write what I write because it’s natural. I write what naturally comes out. I don’t want to feel like I’m supposed to be something I’m not. I only know how to be myself.

I don’t think of myself as a horror writer. I actually don’t even read horror. Monsters, ghosts, ghouls, demons, fairies or other fantasy idioms seem ridiculous to me, and they aren’t scary. Most horror writers worship Stephen King and I read most of his books in high school. I read all of H.P. Lovecraft’s work also while young, but these days I can’t get through the first chapter of these guys–as much as I respect them. I really don’t like most horror movies either–most of them are more comical than scary, and the subject matter is based in non-reality–things that cannot actually happen. Scary to me has to be realistic. The scariest character is always a real person who does evil things, not a monster or ghost.

It’s so strange; what I write is so far removed from what I enjoy reading. It’s just the way it is.

I’m letting go of my cynicism–it festers like a disease and kills your spirit. I cannot worry whether or not people read or comment. I cannot follow every latest trend or fad. I’m just going to write. I sometimes fear that taking my upcoming fiction into the realms of transgressive disgust, people will leave and never come back–but I cannot care. I cannot change my natural purpose in writing. A tiger cannot change its stripes–not that I think of myself as a tiger . . .  grrrr.

Writing to me means to honestly express oneself without ego

Right now, I cannot write about depression because I feel so positive. Though I do write extremely dark fiction, I don’t know if I will forever–I probably will not. It’s possible I may end up writing love stories, albeit emotionally charged–or about philosophical insights . . . I cannot predict. I keep my glass not half full or half empty, but completely empty–there is no glass–my Zen perspective of natural intuition. Intuition is the intellectual form of human instinct and I let my soul blow in the cosmic wind.

I have to write what honestly comes out without fear: fear of rejection, fear of loss or fear of being disliked. I realize not everyone wants to read sickening, horrific tales of violence–especially during the holiday season–but that is a lot of what I write. The most popular articles I’ve written–the ones with thousands of hits–are those I consider filler posts I thought of as drivel. It’s like a rock band who writes one stupid song as a joke and it becomes their only #1 hit.

And all I can think is how unironic it is.

*the picture is KUKA Industrial Robot Writer by Mirko Tobias Schäfer

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