I can’t. I just can’t.
I will not write about Dorner anymore, because I am disappointing my mother with my cavalier use of profanity. I shouldn’t write about politics and culture for the same reason. This is such a maddening time to be aware. Once you see the tragic absurdity of modern politics and culture, you cannot unsee. Once you become aware of the cyclical nature of civilizational history, you cannot retreat into blissful ignorance. Is it the red pill or the blue pill that puts you back into the matrix? I want that one.
What I will mention instead is the petty, envious nature that lies at the heart of every writer. We’re an untrustworthy, competitive lot and I am not in any way innocent. I am not different. I am not magnanimous. I am an arrogant, narcissistic tart. I am not happy for others who enjoy more success than I do, especially if their writing is inferior to mine, which is pretty much always the case. A writer can trust no one, especially another writer. They will pass your ideas off as their own if they think they can get away with it, giving you lip service and stringing you along the whole time with promises of — well, promises of many sorts.
Not that I am speaking from experience or anything.
Surprisingly, I am less vindictive and angry than I ever thought possible. I can be a bitter, vengeful person, but I understand that I only have myself to blame for trusting people I scarcely know to follow through when I am no longer of any use to them.
But this is totally not about me or any experiences I have had with any semi-professional, semi-famous writers. I am burning no bridges here, which goes against every petty instinct in my writer’s soul. I love to throw the match. You have no idea how much I love it.
What am I talking about? Nothing. I’m just trying to fill space until I can think of something relevant to write about.