I’m too fucking autistic for this, I thought to myself, as I read over the strict set of rules, guidelines, and pre-cautionary measures for my school’s Secret Santa game. In Secret Santa games of old, there was a greater feeling of structurelessness- a kind of free-spirited whimsy- where you made your best guess at to what your Secret Santee would like. There was a dangerous, fascistic element to this- especially for the unwitting autist, who may think that a handsome print copy of “Industrial Society and Its Future” would make for an insightful and appropriate gift.
Perhaps it would spark interesting conversation and a new friendship?
Perhaps the woman reading “The Handmaid’s Tale,” who confessed to our group as we waited for the “Monthly Meditative Moment” morning meeting to begin, that it makes her weep “good, cleansing tears,” would enjoy a copy of “The Pussy“- at least to actively engage in a healthy counter-narrative?
“Old elephants limp off to the hills to die; old Americans go out to the highway and drive themselves to death with huge cars.”- Hunter S. Thompson
“I’m not dead, and I’m not for sale.”- Scott Weiland
The waning days of August. After midnight; 2AM about to roll around as inconspicuously as the 80,000th mile on the odometer of an old girl who won’t quit. “Not quite ready to bring it down just yet.” Miles of quiet. Last man standing. Watching the tide roll in. Everything leading to this feels weighted and opaque- a dull ache only noticeable in moments of stillness.
When you’re young, there’s a timelessness to the hours before dawn. They dissipate in the moonlight. The keys to your dad’s old beater open up the world around you like never before- possibilities expand beyond the infinite. Everything takes on a veneer of significance. Sitting at a diner and only ordering coffee. Telling ghost stories on old country roads. Hopping fences and exploring graveyards.
When asked for writing advice, Delicious Tacos- who is certain to go down as one of the most important writers of the blogger-age- likes to keep things simple: get up early every morning and write. And there is something to that- the foundation of writing is interpreting the esoteric disorganization of the writer’s internal world through language and bringing those ideas to a place of external organization- quite literally, coming to terms with what is initially termless. This is why keeping a journal is often recommended as a form of therapy.
However, this only explains the process of writing- the easiest and most direct way to become a writer- rather than explaining what the job of a writer really is. This is something that warrants equal examination.
A good writer is tasked with splitting his veins open with a razor blade and covering his keyboard in hot blood- a prolonged and terrible ritual. You’ll know a piece is finished when your face is numb, eyes unfocused, and body trembling.
You’d think Delicious Tacos wouldn’t have left out the grizzly details- the horrible reality of being on the writing grind- considering I learned it from reading his work.