I didn’t realize how many writers proudly profess to live in New York City. Everywhere I look, so many of them proudly proclaim they live in NYC. I understand it’s THE place to be but I guess I never looked at it that way for writers.
On second thought, it’s not that surprising…
I just have a hard time believing that the city is the creative hub they are making it seem to be. I just don’t see how they can’t get caught up in everything else that is going on…the noise, the madness, the fog…unless of course their main objective isn’t to really write anything that matters. Then of course NYC is perfect.
They are free to make love to their iPhones while they schmooze at the Martini Bar, laugh at each other’s stupid jokes and flirt with each other until the wee hours of the morning. Then the next day they can call mom and dad back home in Sheboygan and ask for some rent money.
Some writers bare their souls in the words they put down. Others produce self-indulgent garbage.
My sister wants to be skinny so she goes to the gym. I advised her to think about the effectiveness of bulimia instead.
My brother wants to be cool so he goes to the bar. I advised him to think about wearing a monocle instead.
Good advice is hard to come by these days. Usually it’s because the person giving it to you is selling something.
The only thing I’m interested in selling is a few smiles and a couple laughs.
To find purpose; to make a difference; to contribute
It could be a smile or laughter. At least it’s something.
To give nothing is to accept the madness
and the madness wins.
To give is to love. That love is Art.
Art trumps the madness and brings us joy.
To love is Art and it is our purpose.
“The meaning of life is love.”
I’ve sat here for days trying to figure out if I am normal for thinking the way I do and for doing what I do. Of course, I’ve never asked anyone because I know the answer is no. And then of course, my secret would be out.
I sit and journal a lot. I find my brain filled with thoughts and ideas that NEED to come out and it’s the way that makes the most sense to me. Sometimes I put on them online but most of the time I don’t…probably because they are just too scattered…so I keep them in my notebooks.
I don’t know if all this journaling brings me closer to sanity or insanity. I really don’t know.
I think that I’ve really learned that it doesn’t matter what other people do. Whether they journal or not…whether they have thoughts and ideas on practically everything that they don’t hear anywhere else. It doesn’t matter. I know the way I am…if I found out that it is normal and everyone does it…I would stop doing it and find something else.
I think someday it will be the notebooks and journals that we leave behind that will tell the greatest stories of our generation. I know we have computers and all that crap…but it will be the notebooks. Our notebooks are a window into our soul. That’s why we protect them so much. At least that’s why I protect mine.
Detroit is in bad shape. It has been for a while and it’s not coming back.
The reality is that we all live in Detroit.