I’m self absorbed. Most bloggers are. Hell, all writers are. Any good writer possesses the ability to look deep inside and find truth, and that’s fairly painful addiction. Sure, there’s the occasional “Look at me!” kind of writer, the guy who thinks he’s great and wants everyone else to think that too. He’s just covering. We are all really desperately attached to our failings as writers and as humans.
That’s why we drink so much.
I’m not making excuses. I’d be the same self-obsessed prick I am now if I never owned a laptop. I happen to write. Being a writer gives me a plausible excuse to abuse drugs and alcohol, to lie in a filthy bed daydreaming, to complain about my life incessantly. It also gives me the excuse to eavesdrop on your life and complain about you as well.
Right now, I possess a gravitational pull formed by a dark malaise. I am orbited by nine animals, a hundred boxes filled with my crap, and the filth associated with those things. I watch comets, whose only purpose is to shed light on all my short-comings. There’s a credit card, catch it! Oh, it’s maxed out. Nevermind. My new job that starts Thursday… oh, I can’t look at it right now. I can’t bear to.
And if you think that I’m under the impression that simply admitting all this makes me a better person, think again. Writers are generally not apologetic even when they tell an unbearable truth. If they were, autobiographies would never make it to print. We feel badly about ourselves, but not badly enough to turn down a publishing opportunity.
Or we’ll just publish ourselves. Where there’s a will to share all this angst, there’s a way.