Writers would quit writing if they wrote for the reader. Readers who sit or lie while reading to satisfy something inside, a voice that beckons in whisper (whimper). If the writer cared for the reader and wrote in the best interests of the reader, he/she would quit writing and instead pick up the pen as a weapon in defense of the reader, to subdue the approaching monsters, namely literature and other writers who have not yet surrendered the pen for the sword, because the writer who writes with the reader in mind writes (different from the previous verb but nonetheless a verb that shall heretofore be referred to as write) for capital gain and fame, which are both diametrically opposed to literature, except in extreme circumstances. Writers are most often broke and unwilling to write for the reader and instead cater to that obsession within, not a voice, not a whisper nor a whimper but a commanding shout with a throat hoarse and desperate and maligned. The writer (among the rest of the world) knows that writing is not lucrative, again, except in extreme circumstances, and the writer does not care, just as he/she does not care for whom, if anyone, ever, will read what they write. The words beckoned forth from caverns deep and resoundingly unique, the only true self, the unadorned self, the self wrapped tightly (safely) in the selfsame ideas that will ultimately destroy the self. This self obliges willingly, acutely aware of the danger and ecstasy involved.
Published by TJ McAvoy
I am a thinker by trade and an artist by definition. Primary influences include, in no particular order, Chandler, Voltaire, Saramago, Borges, John Coltrane, Nietzsche, Ricardo Piglia, Emerson, George V. Higgins, Manuel Puig, D.F. Wallace, Cortázar, Denis Johnson, Michelangelo, Italo Calvino, Cormac McCarthy, Juan José Saer, Keith Jarrett, J-Dilla, Roberto Bolaño, and Don DeLillo. View all posts by TJ McAvoy