A Rant about the Futhermucking World

Let me be honest for a second. I use this site to post my thoughts on crap from all forms of entertainment: books, games, music, and television. I love getting all worked up about it, and I read way more nonfiction than I probably should, spending my time reading other people writing about creative content rather than making or enjoying that same content.

This realization made me bug out last week. I spend my time searching for paying work, and I’ve had a stack of editing on my desk for almost a month now. My pace on that stack is somewhat slower than I had originally anticipated. My to-do list kept growing, and finally, I took a mental health day, heading up to the mountains for a couple of days of intense writing.

I had a great time, writing about 19,000 words over those two days, going way beyond my expectations. I split those words between two projects: a science fiction story set in a post-apocalyptic setting (I know, original, right?) and a memoir-esque take on bouts of depression in my life and others around me.

Both of these were extremely fulfilling to write about, and I was blessed to have that opportunity to write without distraction. But then I get back to the grind of job-hunting and domestic responsibilities only to find that the words that I wrote weren’t quite Pulitzer-Prize-caliber sentences, dripping with exquisite imagery and multi-syllabic expressions of grandeur.

They were okay.

But the act of writing those words… That was the best I had felt while writing for a long time.

The job-hunt? Well, scouring through some boards with some jobs, all I see are internships for people with experience, which is like seeing a food stamps for rich people. I just don’t get it.

So simultaneously bouncing between these realities, the one where I write and experience some sort of transcendent experience clicking and clacking on the keyboard, and the one where my soul gets crushed by the horribly cutthroat conditions of the economy, I realize something: man, the world would be better if all of us writers sat around and wrote more.

And it’s not just about us writers, either. If I had a nickel for every friend that was a musician at one point, giving it up because “life got in the way,” I’d probably have 75¢ or so. What about the artists who just don’t paint anymore?

Man, the futhermucking world can get in the way sometimes…

So here’s to you. Go write, read, paint, or sing. Take a break from your normal unwinding routine and find a moment or two to do your thing. ‘Cause that shit is awesome.


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