My Writing, Self-Delusional Façade


Video Credit: Shea

This was originally written for just one person, But in my vain vanity fantasy, I decided to ‘Shit-Post’ it here.

(Because I am adrift at sea… And exhibiting my most hated characteristics: self-pity and self-loathing)

These are gonna come off as some really vain, pompous questions, but questions I struggle with every day:

1. Am I ‘Interesting?’

2. Is my writing worth a fuck?

3. Or am I just another asshole?

4. Who calls Himself a ‘Writer?’

(There are many more I beat myself up over, and if you drill down into my archives, you may be happy/unhappy to discover them, but for the purposes of THIS Post, They are Not Germane.)

Not fishing for validation, compliments, nor smoke blown up my vanity ass—Honesty.

Honesty is what I need. All I desire.

If my writing is only self-serving, then I am a failure (as a writer)

Please be honest—Trust me: I can take it—There is no harsher critic of me, than me.

Sometimes I feel lost at sea—And, as a sailor, this is never a good thing.

I keep watching/listening to Bukowski and asking myself these questions.

Take some time with your respond:

I am way past the point of counting upon ‘Instant Gratification.’

Cheers My Good,

Honest Friends,

–Many-Feet Marcom—Wanna-Be Writer

3 thoughts on “My Writing, Self-Delusional Façade

  1. Bukowski taught us. Have no concern for the naysayers and appreciate the people you like and who like you. The rest don’t matter. Bukowski was more loved dead than alive. The writer’s curse. We must write for ourselves.

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