An Accursed and Terrible Vice*: a fragment of something, from something

Written by Carmen X, one of our poetry writers, and edited by Willow, one of our editors!

I fantasize about writing more than I actually do it, writing. Part of it is because, every time I try, I come up against the notion of what, exactly, is the point. Does this burning world really need another insecure, unconfident egoist writing about what ails them? or interests them? or, if they attempt a stab at journalism, impose their Self upon an event, topic, subject, another Self, like some kind of literary alien invader? You are condemned to be yourself; no matter where you are, your head is with you. What you write doesn’t necessarily have to be a reflection of you yourself (because lying is always an option), but it does reflect upon the words chosen (and, well, somebody did have to choose them, and so might choose to be a liar). If the biggest question is (and I admit that part of the pointlessness is the lack of immediate monetary prospects for the amateur writer, because if there is no instant gratification or financial incentive to be had, again…) ‘What is the point?’ then other questions follow: What’s worth writing about? If writing is a personal matter, am I worth my own time? And then so, dear reader, am I worth yours?

All of this is answered in the writing itself, of course, that contradictory border between thought and act, theory and practice, because the choosing of the right word or sentence or passage is a commitment while also a thinking through, a finished piece or poem is merely a thought left well enough alone, picked up by the reader and turned over like a stone. It is then up to that reader, dear reader, whether to toss that stone outward (art for social critique and change) or bash one’s head in (with it, the stone-poem; art as silent contemplation). (And, to speak of a thinking through, how much conviction can you have of a thought that is born only through the act of writing? Do I really mean this sentence, and the one previous, just because it came to me now, following other sentences?) Sometimes it equates to the same difference. Ah, but what difference does it make? The act itself is not a rational thing. Only writers scribble essays on why they write. (When was the last time you watched a movie from a director about why she makes movies?) Writing gets compared to boxing, a marathon race, a sprint, prostitution, because in the final analysis it is a nothing-thing. (It is Less Than Nothing†.) If we could make sense of it, there would be no need to write another word. I will return to my fantasies, and pull my pen away from the page forever‡.

* Cut-up from a quote by Montaigne, full quote as follows: ‘Lying is a terrible vice, it testifies that one despises God, but fears men. In plain truth, lying is an accursed vice.’

† Direct allusion to Zizek’s book of the same name, however conceptually incorrect/inappropriate it may be (Writing as a cover-up, constitutive of its own negativity.).

‡ This is yet another lie.

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This piece was written by one of our poetry columnists, Carmen X. Reach them at @animagebook, on Instagram!

This piece was edited by one of our editors, Willow! Reach her at @oldmanheart, on Instagram!

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