Am I write?

Writing sucks. It’s a chore. It’s frustrating. It’s work. I would much rather be pal-ing around with my friends, or eating cookies in bed, or doing some sort of adventure sport, or drinking beers, or wearing a turtleneck. So why do I write?

For the finished product of course. It’s not about the journey. F the journey. The journey hurts my back and my eyes. Why do women get pregnant? Not for the pregnancy. I’m told those are unpleasant. They get pregnant because they want a baby. Well me too. I’m not the nuturing type, and a pregnancy would really ruin my figure, so i’m not about to get knocked up with a real baby, but a word-baby, I can carry that to term no problem.

Humans have an insatiable drive to create. I am human. Therefore, I have an insatiable drive to create. Artists create art. Musicians create music. Architects, buildings. My fingers are too clumsy for art, my ears, too unrefined for music. I could possibly be a passable architect, but I was once  told that most newly trained architects work in a firm as an assistant to the master. I like to be in charge, so architecture is out. Word-smithing though, that I can do.

Building a piece of literature, no matter whether it is a fictional story, or a letter to a business colleague, or an instructional manual containing proper procedures for scripting C++ programming algorithms, involves a certain flow. It is not unlike solving a complex math problem. You add and subtract until you finally achieve a balanced equation where all your sums add up, and when you are done, entropy has been avoided for one more day, and the universe can continue to exist without dissolving into atomic chaos. All that, just from writing something down.

I write to become immortal. I think this is the reason for all creative endeavor. No matter what you make, be it a child, or a painting, or a story,  you do it because you know that your existence is fleeting, and you want to leave something of yourself behind. Tolkien and Zelazny are dead, yet I know them. I’ve met them. I still see them every time I open one of their books.

The more I write, the less I fear death, because I know I too may yet live forever. That’s why I’m sitting hunched uncomfortably at my desk right now, instead of playing video games in the living room or pounding weights at the gym or chasing the almighty dollar. Sweet muscles and a fat wallet are nice. Eternal life is better.

Advertisements

About Max T Kramer

Max has been better than you at writing since the third grade. He currently lives in Connecticut, but will someday return to the desert.
This entry was posted in Max's Journal and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Am I write?

  1. I appreciate the way you put your thoughts together. I am happy to come across this post. I too hope to live forever.. but who doesn’t, right? 🙂

    -Wendy

  2. Max T Kramer says:

    Thanks for the support Wendy! It’s always nice to know people are checking in. I spent some time poking around your site, and i’ve got to tell you, i’d love to write a story for some of your art, you know, to help Rory keep up.
    – Max

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s