On Being a Bad Writer

by Jonas Weaver

I like to think I have some level of skill when it comes to writing when, in all likelihood, that thought is no more than some sort of delusional desire. Everyone thinks they write well. Or, at least, wants to hear that they write well. For myself, I finally accepted the fact that when I do write it is often an incoherent mess.

Related: I have moments where I write well but most times I write at a level close to mediocrity.

I dream of publication in a high and mighty magazine at some point in the future. But, for now at least, I maintain a blog with a lame background and full of my less than disciplined thoughts on sundry topics. And I write at a mediocre level. That’s okay, though. Mostly it’s okay because I want to get better. The problem of bettering oneself when it comes to writing is finding out what one wants to write about.

Best advice: write about what interests you. Worst advice: write about what you know.

One exercises the mind, the other limits exploration. The idea of finding a niche limits the wannabe writer more than any arbitrary rules of language can. I have no niche. Sure, this blog is filled with truncated thoughts on philosophy and theology, filled with endless poems in which I try to be the next e.e. cummings, filled to the brim with half thought out words. Always present is the demand that I find a niche, a topic, a theme, a genre, to dedicate my time to. I find this ever present demand to be the cause of weariness and too much thought. Think too much on what to write and I never write, always happens without fail. So, for now, I accept that maybe I need to simply sit down and use words to describe what’s happening within my world, as mundane and boring as that may be. And I sure as hell need to start to live within the world and not sit in but separate for the sake of art. Not that my writing is anything close to artistic.

I’m a mediocre writer. So are you, most likely. Embrace it.

 

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