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“What do you make?”

She asked me casually, and I stammered like a fucking idiot. I felt like she pulled my shirt over my head, and sucker punched me in the throat. See, I can’t respond to a question like that in speech, the way I would respond in text. 

I make spectacles out of blank pages. I make my feelings known. I make my thoughts evacuate my brain, in a semi-orderly fashion, though the stupid ones tend to just repeatedly bang their heads into walls. I make grammatical sacrifices and linguistic happenings. I make grown-ups cry, and children laugh. I make worlds out of words. I make points, and they can be as profound, or superficial as you see fit to interpret. 

I modify reality, and alter definitions, to suit my purposes. I create textual atmosphere, and design literary devices.

What the fuck do YOU make? 

Naw. I’m not really sore about it. That’s just a bit of fictional ego, ruffling my pen feathers and puffing out my ink-well chest. 


I didn’t know how to answer, because it’s arguable that I don’t really “make” anything. 

Is it strange that I think of myself as both an artist and a hack? I don’t always know if I’m the creator, or just the resources that my subconscious draws from to transmit the story. Am I really a writer, or more like a fleshy typewriter for my unconscious narrative?

This isn’t an angst ridden question. It’s just a philosophical inquiry. 


Am I the thing that makes, or the thing being made — and re-made and re-made with each sentence? 

comments

47 notes

  1. secretmedium said: Oh, this is me all the time.
  2. electriccuriosity reblogged this from ordinarywonder
  3. aquietjoy said: oooohhhh you so deep <3 love it :)
  4. marcbyth said: kjlkjeskl;;ak;jedkajk k I LOVE WHAT THIS IS BASED ON BUT I LIKE YOURS BETTER
  5. ordinarywonder posted this
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