Writers and the Lack of Shame

Unlike all the other fantasy-stokers of the folkish left vein, no  platform here espouses the false affirmation that “we are all one,” or any of that kind of fervent, self=ennobling  60s- ism. We are all disparate people, some extremely privileged and obscenely compensated, others desperately poor and fated for immense and horrific suffering. No one feels your pain but you. Your individual destiny is not the result of some innate and divinely-dispensed justice for your innate goodness, but is highly contextual, reliant on so much unearned, ill-constructed, random sociology, yet we persist in finding some shreds of “meaning” in all this, as if the universe does indeed revolve around us, meat bag of protoplasm that we are.

None of us can escape this – the ones who cry for universal brotherhood and “We Shall Overcome” are checking their 401(k) plans the next minute, leaving others to wallow and die in empire-produced  bombing runs. This is how humans have always acted- grunting and chirping to assuage others in their packs and tribes, but then feasting on stolen viscera, happy in their temporary engorgement.

In the modern era, writers have focused on fashioned cave art out of the detritus of their personal lives – finding subjects for PEN prizes out of the sadness and tragedy of their extended family’s boneheaded pursuits and terminations. Suicide, death, hip replacement surgery, depressives as spouses, children rushed at midnight to rehab facilities, opioid crushes resulting in stomach-pumpings, sex-work reveries, intimate sexual abuse from selected partners – all of it is used as the basic ingredients for the essay, the book, the Facebook post (this is a guess, since there is a boycott of this monstrosity of  social-promotion media giants such as Facebook/AOL  here at FSN headquarters).

That’s not what life should aim for – maximum profit out of inherited personal loss, or even, by extension, personal gain. Your lovely, wonderful wife or husband or lover is your onw business, not the world’s to slaver over. Your child’s suicide is an event that lies deep within your mind, unfathomable in places, untransferrable in its particulars to others. Have some sense of proportion and gravity, ye fellow wanna-be writers and savants – some things are much better left unsaid, and left to bounce around the completely individualized cranium, known only in full detail by you. Others don’t need to know the surface – they cannot be inside the dimensions of singular emotions and references and halting self-judgments that you make.

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