The Sisyphean Angst of Modern Writers

We presently wrestle with the drone of constant and continuous content production for the sake of relevance and fame. Without content, we are sequestered to the wall of forgotten faces where nameless placards exist, blank plaques hang, and faceless frames are glued to remember the forgotten. Writers fight the never-ending thirst for the content monster that is social media. We fight, for one, because that’s what writing is, a struggle. Molding words and phrases that sound perfect in the mind and numb on paper into something worth sharing with the world. The truth, however, is that writers want nothing more than for their words, their very souls to find meaning on a page, whether they be read or not, the process and conclusion of writing is in fact, to displace that evil that festers in the mind, remove its fang, and pin it to a medium where it can no longer haunt the writer. Two, the reason why we are plagued by this ouroboros of mass production for production’s sake is the incessant need for validation. Yes, we are human too. And having our material (soul) consumed by countless others, as a source of nourishment for thirsty and hungry literary minds, is in and of itself a form of existential sedative for us. We produce so that what is produced is consumed. The larger the volume of production, the higher the expectation of those who will come to receive our gifts, the fruit of our labor, the exorcising of these demons of the mind and soul onto a page. Third, and finally, is that we need to eat. Writers who subsist on their writing are perhaps the most miserable of our sort. Bivocational writers can rest easy at the end of a long and wordless day because they know that, whether they write or not, their bills are paid, their bellies are full, and the lights are on. The writer without a second job, or rather the writer whose writing is their sole source of income, is crippled by the pressure to produce for the sake of bread. Now, this concept sounds romantic at first, considering the number of authors whose work has afforded them healthy advances from major publishers or whose book series has amassed such a following that they can kick their feet up and never write again. The grim truth of writing as a source of income is that you may, if you’re lucky, make several hundred, and rarely, several thousand dollars a month. Now, the latter number sounds tempting, considering the freedom one has to spend all day in front of a pen and pad or keyboard and screen, doing nothing more than writing. But truth be told, a person in this predicament is no better than a man locked in solitary confinement for an indeterminate time. If they do not write, they do not eat. And worse yet, not everything written is rewarded the same. One month, the writer may produce the most objectively awe-inspiring, soul-rending, spine-tingling, and heart-stopping concepts. The monetary benefit reaped peaks at around $20. Just enough money to buy bread and a cup or two of that fancy coffee from that overpriced, bland coffee shop down the road. And on another month, the most acerbic, asinine, worthless, thoughtless, and soulless plug piece is vomited from the writer’s lesser-known sphincter onto a page to reward them with praise, accolades, and an influx of followers and paying subscribers. The wealth accumulated from such drab, from such trashy, potentially divisive, and categorically satanic material (satanic in the sense that it is unoriginal and reduces the self-value of the person even though it brings them some immediate material comfort) is enough to buy a luxury Swiss watch, a used car, cash, or to pay off that stubborn loan you have been ignoring for months. But, with all things paid for and settled, the demon inside, the drip and drop, the grinding of nails against a chalkboard, the gnawing hunger pangs, the dull nerve ache after banging one’s existential elbow against one’s existential coffee table, is there, all too awake and alive, to haunt and shame you for settling for quick cash. It is a living hell to amass wealth from writing trash. Yes, champagne flows, Italian leather smells wonderful, and the peace of mind that comes from having a refrigerator filled with groceries is grand. Yet, in the solitude of unwholesome and incomplete success, the mind persists in plaguing us with the sad reality of having failed our calling. I recall the day I made a healthy amount of money writing about the tragic death, or more accurately, the brutal murder of a Black woman in her own home by cowardly police officers. My story, my words, my open heart, writing from the darkest and most hurt sections of my soul, made money. I wrote about murder and death. I was rewarded with money. A woman was unnecessarily killed, her corpse, from the time of my write-up, potentially underground, giving in to the slow rot that is death, and there I was, checking my bank account in anticipation of my first of several bulky payments from writing about such a situation. Her, there, dead. Bullet in the brain, perhaps no more, since the bullet was removed by a medical examiner and later bagged as evidence. And me, at home, bank account app open, refreshed every five minutes, to witness the green font deposit numbers in my account.”Here,” Said the voice. “Is the fruit of your labor. Go, now, and spend this blood money on something nice; something, anything.” And so the cycle continues. Bland writing, bland published content, increasing the number of published posts, and increasing the capital derived from subpar or satanic writings.

I fight this devil daily. Both of them, really. The one that plagues me to write copiously to silence it. To shut it down, keep it back, and turn it inside out for the sake of a better, more informed, morally upright, and justice-seeking writer in me, and the devil that lurks in the world of literary waste. The one that demands constant content, which diminishes me, the mind, and you, the other mind that consumes the waste produced for the sake of filthy lucre. Imagine the numerous artists, musicians, writers, playwrights, poets, and more, if they had settled on money and money alone, to produce their works, en masse, for the sake of relevance and another month of necessities met. Imagine missing out on the works of Kafka, Faure, Michelangelo, and Jordan because they opted for mediocrity instead of excellence for the sake of sustenance. It was hunger, love, passion, and drive that kept them all, in light of limited potential and unwavering struggle that catapulted each to stardom. No, not the stardom of myth-making and pseudo-fulfillment, but the stardom of quieting once and for all the demons that plague the mind. They accomplished in life, for a short time, the ability to silence the rush, to prove to themselves, first and foremost, that some things worth making are worthy of making for the sake of making them well. The industrialization of writing for the sake of capital is satanic. We have robbed ourselves, writers, of the joy of wrestling with our own ideas for the sake of bringing them to life on a page, simply because we can. Published or not, the process and completion of this war is in and of itself a pleasure which money cannot buy. Yes, yes, there is great comfort in being well-fed and taken care of, but the greater joy comes from writing well, not writing often. From writing to calm the angst of not writing, for not writing is like not peeing or not defecating. If you hold on long enough, once you finally release, the process will be equally painful and unnaturally disconcerting. But when we write for the joy of it, to wrestle the demons to rest, to strive for a brighter version of ourselves in our pages, to create worlds or destroy them, to mock tyrants or call for justice to reign, we release the prisoner inside into the world where they belong. Writing is the reward. The followers, clicks, likes, shares, attention, and eventually, capital, are mere distractions from the true and everlasting joy that is writing in and of itself.

Fight the devil. Resist the urge to produce for the sake of production. Write because you are a writer. Because without it, you are nothing.

Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves; ensure justice for those being crushed. – Proverbs 31:8 NLT