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Professional Word Vomiter

I think, hidden deep down in the recessed caverns of their undivulged secrets, everybody has an obscure talent they'd commit murder to be paid and laid for. One of my childhood friends could roll a joint in about 10 seconds by his estimation, a skill that may earn him healthy dividends in our modern world of legalized cannibis. Another girl could draw literally anything and everything, whether it was placed right in front of her or sprang forth from her macabre imagination. Yet, due to lack of business acumen and an overgrown, overly sensitive heart, she never progressed past trading paintings and graphite portraits for pills and small amounts of pocket change. Myself, it should be evident what I do. This blog started as a pet project, a tangible medium for me to vent my pent up creative energy. I never had any aspirations for it to provide a living beyond wishful reveries. Now, Ill take it a bit more seriously. My astute readers, all 4 of you, will notice the 2 month absence. Although I wasnt publishing, I still wrote, tirelessly. I penned essays for students, performed slam poetry, and began work on 2 e-books. This is what I do, this is my art, my passion and drive. I have this feeling, radiating from underneath all of the doubt, anguish and uncertainty. It communicates through the barriers and detritus that if I only keep writing, keep plugging away, keep repping out this encumbering, unshakeable weight, that eventually I'll be rewarded. I plan on heeding this echo of my potential future with every cell in my body. The reward, of course, will always be the writing. That never changes. But, if I can claw my way to absolute freedom, financially and otherwise, by the sweat of my brow and the words of my armory, my combatative lexicon, then Ill take that leap of faith. If I succeed, Im an ascendant, a warrior who availed himself of his own strength, striding into Valhalla gloriously. If I fail and my battered corpse is strewn across the unforgiving deck of the distraught, at least Ill have gone out on my feet swinging and grinning, possessed by the fire of a dream, rather than suckling at the tit of mediocrity on my knees.

Yesterday, with the acquisition of my car and the regaining of my soveriegnty, I cruised the island. After getting the essentials like gas, water and Slim Jims out of the way, I pondered where to go next. Naturally, Barnes and Noble topped the list of prospective destinations. I set the name in my GPS, and off I went. After arriving, I quickly settled back into my old routine. Flush with cash from a month of isolation, I felt I deserved to be a bit wasteful, to the tune of 3 books and 2 CDs. One of those books, Me Talk Pretty One Day, by David Sedaris, intrigued me. I had heard of the humorist's work before, referenced in podcasts and alluded to in blogs, but I had never actually read it. The book was half off, however, so I figured what the hell. Every new experience is bittersweet, and this one was no different, because while Im grateful that I discovered a brilliant new writer to consume and enjoy, Ill forever hate myself for my stupidity in not devouring and hoarding his work sooner. The opening stories, ranging from his perpetual war with his speech therapist over the pronunciation and enunciation of the letter S, to his inadvertent outing as gay at the age of 12 to his midget guitar teacher by way of a calamitous rendition of choice 1960's commercial jingles, were hilarious, honest and open. This is the kind of writing I admire and seek to emulate, to absorb and to integrate into my own style. Intelligent, snarky, biting and unique.

You look at all these people making it and you start to wonder why you can't steal more than your fair share of the pie. We all have something to say, stories to be told, a voice to be heard. If so, why cant everyone be a writer? As a writer, I believe that we all are one in the common sense of the word, similar to how all people with the base skill can call themselves drivers. What sets the amateur apart from the professional, the hobbyist from the devoted, and the beginner from the expert is their level of ability, and the degree to which said ability is honed. Obviously, grammatically correct writing framed by sound composition is going to be more enjoyable to read and skim then the chaotic, formless scribblings of an idiot. Conversely, consider the anthesis of this idea, with examples borrowed from music, another love of mine. Even a casual listener can tell you that one harmonious, striking note from a Blues guitarist, sailing above the background noise and hovering in the forefront of your sense of sonic appreciation, completely obliterates 1000 technically proficient shredders lacking soul. Theres a reason why Rebel XD, the fastest rapper alive as recognized by Guiness World Records in 2007, who spit a blistering 852 syllables in 42 seconds, isnt anywhere near as popular or socially robust other rappers with a slower flow but more lyrical depth and content. The point Im getting at here, when brought back to writing, is that while you'd expect the author with the Bachelor's in English to have the lion's share of the readership, there are several blogs and books that have earned and continue to earn esteem and money, yet were created and spawned from those who never graduated High School. My message is that any art, the offspring of any creative venture, is subjective. People like what they like. Listen to that voice and stain your canvas with the paint of your soul. Tell your story, however you tell it naturally. Anything else is to sacrifice the gift. Regardless of attention or lack thereof, financial recompensation or delving into debt, within reason of course. Dont stifle that flame inside of you, no matter what direction it burns towards. Live.

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