As a writer, I am constantly observing the world around me. And oh, what a beautiful world to observe! For example, look at those two little squirrels playing in the park, just running back and forth without a care in the world. Unburdened and unaware, they are free in a way us humans could never b- oh, hold on, getting a little close to the street, guys. Turn back while you still have a chan- ah, shit. That’s a lot of blood for so small a body. Such vivid imagery, though. I should use that.
As a writer, I am a painter capturing the ethereal beauty of the natural world.
Which is why I sit atop this grassy knoll awaiting the northern lights, notebook in hand, ready to evoke its essence with the power of words. Wait, what do you mean I can’t see it from a rest stop off the New Jersey turnpike – I’m on the northbound side! So I’ve been sitting in the freezing cold the past three hours FOR NOTHING? This is why nature sucks. Um, where are my keys? Has anyone seen keys to a Nissan Cube? Look for a keychain with a Trollz doll. It is hairless and THAT IS MY BUSINESS. Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m so cold. I can feel the hyperthermia creeping in. Please God, don’t let me die out here. I’LL BE BETTER, I SWEA- oh, there they are. That was close. I need to write about this experience; everyone loves a harrowing man vs. nature story.
As a writer, I am a recorder, documenting the vernacular of modern speech for future generations.
It is my sacred duty to transcribe the nuance of everyday conversation exactly as I hear it. Like, next to me in this coffee shop, the dialogue flows into my ears like music. It’s poetry. It’s beautiful:
“So you just want me to shit in your mouth? Nothing else?”
“Correct.”
“Alright. Well, fecal play is an additional $200 on top of my flat rate.”
“That’s no problem.”
As a writer, I conjure magic from the mundane.
Take this puddle I’ve been staring at for hours. A puddle is never just a puddle. Where you see dirty water, I see a metaphor for the fragility of consciousness. And as I place my sandaled foot over the surface, disrupting the murky calm, a ripple moves out, signifying the end of innocence, perhaps? I submerge my entire foot and HOLY SHIT WHY WAS THERE A RUSTY NAIL STICKING STRAIGHT UP?! I have been impaled! Is that my bone? Oh, God, why is nobody around?!? Am I going to get tetanus? What even is tetanus? Why did I wear sandals in March! I am in so much pain right now. But wait, true art comes from pain, does it not? Of course it does. So I stick the nail in deeper, for my greatest work shall be forged from this suffering!
As a writer, I am a detective, uncovering the mystery that is a human life.
Consider this subway car I’m riding in. The possibilities are endless. Each and every person here has their own tapestry waiting to be unraveled. What’s that nurse’s story? Does that business man actually mean business, or is it all just for show? And what about that guy alone in the corner with his hand on his lap, staring at his ring finger. Was a ring once there? Or does he hope- oh, oh my. Not a finger. That is his penis. I see. Aaaaand, yep, now he’s masturbating. Think of the children, man! Actually, wait. Think of the children. Will the young boy next to me be scarred from this forever? Will this experience influence the rest of his life, leading him on a path of depravity and destruction, a cyclical nature doomed to repeat until the end of time? Are we all, at some point in our lives, both the boy and the man? Is there a story here? Am I reading too much into this? Am I the weird one for staring at this masturbating man for so long?
As a writer I am but a whisper in the wind, neither seen nor heard but always there.
I stroll down the sidewalk, absorbing the vibrancy of the city. I see two people talking animatedly in an alleyway and I watch like it’s my own personal zoo. Just two friends, shooting the shit after work, having a grand ol’ time – wait, why does that bigger guy have a baseball bat? He’s about to beat the other guy up, isn’t he? Darn. It certainly feels like I’ve had rotten luck recently. Oh, yikes! That had to hurt. I’m just going to hide behind this dumpster here before they see me…
“Help! You there! Please help me!” Ah, shit.
“I wish I could!” I confess, throwing my arms in the air. “But I’m a writer. My job is to observe!”
“Are you serious?!? What does that even mean?”
“It means your story will live on on the page, even if you do not!”
“Fuck you, man!”
Oh what a beautiful world to observe!
