Why is leading double lives so prevalent among writers? Why is writing, even by writers themselves, deemed so easy to wield that being invested in writing about detergent can peacefully coexist with airing our your own laundry list of childhood trauma as adult fiction material?
Blurred lines, flexible standards, convenient identities, the will power and energy to sustain multiple voices that are all sincere and true, sans paradox, depending on where they are needed.
Is there really such a thing as lazy writing? Isn’t all creation of strings of letters, phrases, aphorisms, narratives such deliberate decisions, from iota to structure to word count to platform, that it is always intentional, always affective, always loaded with some purpose, to inform supposedly, but predominantly, to gratify the writer herself, to affirm, to remember? Writing is display. Someone once likened it to a striptease. Only I tend to bare everything all at once. And the discarded fabrics never look artfully dumped.
At some point, I suspect the double life phenomenon persists because writers need convenient validity. One from the real world (stabilty), another from the realm of imagination (pursuing the highest craft). Writers must be insecure. They need constant affirmation. If being too serious doesn’t work out, hey at least you have a paycheck! And if you don’t get popular enough: hey at least you have time to pursue what you ‘love.’ Either way you sell out.
Only sometimes third even fourth lives are needed because affirmation financially or artistically will never be enough. Validation is so elusive.
Writing is a very dangerous job. If you are not careful, a piece of you follows with every page you hand over to the world.
I have typed all this out on my phone. That is kind of problematic.
This afternoon I got the distinct impression that I was pretending to be someone I am not.