Bugs just bite and itch
This article is best enjoyed whilst listening to the song “He Was Simply Made That Way” by Daniel Norgren —https://open.spotify.com/track/2C5qUZc6afAOQ4KrCpFqDb?si=98404ae5dfd14a20
Weeds can grow a foot tall
In just one single day
But who could ever blame them?
They were simply made that way
Hey you,
Surprised to hear from me? Well, don’t be. I am shocked too. I’m probably only able to write this because I was wrecked with guilt over the fact that at this point it would seem ridiculous to call myself a writer without actually doing what writers do —write.
Oh, and yes, that’s an em-dash there. Fuck your assumptions about ChatGPT.
Despite not writing much, I’ve paid attention to the trends. I’ve paid attention to the ridiculousness of people thinking em-dashes are uniquely an “AI” thing. I saw that I shook my head. Saying em-dashes are a dead giveaway that a writing is AI-generated is like saying my writing of anything beautifully crafted is also AI-generated.
But maybe it is. Perhaps this isn’t even me writing. Maybe I’ve become so lost in my head and stifled by my pain, I decided to let my AI do my writing for me. This might be “Misty” writing to you. Yes, my ChatGPT is called Misty, famously named after a favorite corn actress of mine.
That’s probably besides the point of anything. The point —I hope— is that nothing is new under the sun. Yes, em-dashes existed long before ChatGPT thought it cool to use. Writer’s Block has existed longer. Truth is, sometimes it’s not as though writers can’t find the words, but that the words often can’t find the writer.
Words have found it hard to find me. Currently, I have two pending writing fellowship applications I’m yet to complete because of one question: Tell us what story you’d be working on with us? And for the life of me, I cannot think of anything that isn’t pedestrian at best.
And that feels like hell on earth. A storyteller who cannot tell a story is like a singer with the perfect pitch who’s also a mute. I don’t know how long this dearth of ideas would last, but I do know that I’m tired of having to wait.
So, starting now, I’m going to go back to those applications and stare at them until the deadlines pass, and then maybe the pain of a missed opportunity might trigger something in me.
Or maybe it won’t. Perhaps this is it for me. The end. No more stories. Just a writer who once told stories but now spends his day judging everyone who judges writers who use the em-dash.
Mankind never gives a fuck
'Bout the rules of pain and pay
But who could ever blame him?
He was simply made that way
Cheers!
The words will find you. This was beautiful too.