Though I would certainly not grant myself the title, it is obvious that to be a writer, one needs to possess an inflated sense of self-worth. One needs to be arrogant, often elitist, and needs to believe that what they have to say is better than what the person next door could deliver, with their greater form and a technical brilliance that puts your own imagined talent to shame.
Often, the simple act of creating literature is merely due to a desire to prove how clever you are, how different you are from the crowd of nameless faces, of voiceless physicality. This is an incredibly self-aggrandising reason to create anything, but that does not, necessarily, make it a bad thing. The creation of anything is rarely bad, even if the product of your labours ends up as far less than the standard to which you would desire it.
Then there are those with a definite aim for their work, whether it be a political or religious aim, a compulsive desire to give their twisted imaginations free reign, even if only for a short while, or simply to make some money. Though I have issues with some motivations, particularly the last, I cannot argue that products of such intent can be amazing.
Today, I finally summoned up the courage to show something I am working on to a friend of mine whom, though she is irritatingly self-effacing, is a far more talented writer than I could ever hope to be. She’s not finished looking through it yet, but one comment she made has stuck with me for the last few hours and, for some reason, will not leave my consciousness.
‘Your work is arsey but it makes logical sense.’
Goddamn, now I feel a little more like a writer!