Reading and Writing

I read all these books written by great people and I wonder. I wonder how did they do it. From where did they get all these ideas and how did they manage to create all these masterpieces. Such giant masterpieces. From where all this inspiration cam from: how did they were able to get hold of spirit of creativity. Is there a spirit out there, waiting for me as well. How to find it, where to find it and when I find it how to interact...

I sit down to write something and suddenly it's all blank or too mixed up. There is nothing, complete blankness although there are too many thoughts. I wonder even more.

Finding nothing to write about I decide to write about writing. Strange. Don't look for any advice in this piece of writing. Remember it comes from a novice or a newbie or an amateur or whatever they call a wanna be writer. So coming back to writing. First thing to tackle is why I want to write. Not why I write.

So my thinking box manages to confuse me on this question all the time but today I will to get over this. The first reason would be immortality. Like the one they have in novel Scythe. Every time someone will read my work he will 'cut corner' for me. Meaning he will prolong my life, and if I am lucky to have a huge readership, I will find myself eternal. Not sure David Foster Wallace will be happy with me on this thought of popularity. But who cares... I am unique. Fool's paradise...

Then there is the process of writing which attracts me, its a discovery of self. Reaching depths of yourself, searching within your vast complex of memories to find that perfect one to write on it. That painful process, that walk through the inferno. Discovering heaven and hell inside yourself, the universe inside me, I can feel it and almost know it with certainty that I am not something simple. Writing is finding Self, discovery of the unseen and unheard of. Only few things have such power...Then there are those piercing eyes of Kafka which calls to everyone who has the eyes to see to write, to let out that roughness inside you and try showing it to this world and don't care what this world thinks of. Kierkegaard goes even a step further with his comedian satire. Why should I give up on Kafka if he didn't give up on me with that gaze. That eternal gaze. How will I face him if I ever get to meet him. I am already unable to maintain eye contact with him, wasting all those years of my life. I google Kafka and it responds with some Apache Kafka software. What sort of world are we living in. Apologies Kafka.

Enough for now...