I sit here typing with my right hand, index finger dancing across the keys. Tap. Tap. Tap. My left hand is raised to my face, a hula hoop tightly hugging each finger. This only works with the big bags now, although I’m certain I remember a time when my delicate fingers fit the smaller ones with ease. I look like some sort of mad king, or perhaps a pimp, or perhaps even some sort of mad pimp king. ‘I should buy a sceptre,’ I say aloud, ‘A crown would do nothing for my hair.’
I shrug my fur-lined coat to the floor behind me and ignore the gasp and crash as someone, presumably a peasant of some description tumbles to the floor behind me. He probably uses public transport, I sneer as he yells something into my ear.
The more I write, the more certain things become devastatingly clear to me and some of these are just so fucking inconvenient for people like me. For a start, its hard work. Who’d have thought it, eh? Actually working at something and constantly trying to better yourself is difficult. It’s a mad world.
Aside from that, the more I write and the more I get absolute nowhere, the more I realise how important having an ego is. Picking up a pen and putting it to paper (or picking up a finger and putting it to keyboard) is relatively easy. Seriously, I could happily sit here for three hours and vomit (metaphorically) onto a piece of paper or keyboard (although who would want to pick the metaphorical bits out afterwords?) and once finished I’d have that lovely glow inside me that is the reward of anyone who likes arranging words in nice patterns. This is wonderful, and in many ways, the most satisfying part. But another part can be just as thrilling; having someone tell you how your words made them feel.
I’ve had people tell me my writing is utter bollocks and I’ve had people tell me that they adore it and either way is exciting. If I’m told that I’ve written something beautiful and eye-opening? Wonderful, my erection for myself just grew another inch. If I’m told my writing is shit? Fuck you, you worthless piece of trash.
Seriously though, it challenges me. It brings me down to earth, which is honestly just as beautiful as it is up there in the clouds sometimes. More importantly, it challenges my perception of myself. This is (so much more often than not) so much more useful than having someone tell you what a wonderfully literate chap you are. And this is when having an ego is important.
Finding praise and even criticism is astonishingly more difficult without the presence of an ego convincing you to force people to read what you have written because it is the best fucking shit ever, because they have no real reason to believe it if you don’t first tell them that it is. This is especially true in an era in which so many people are pushing so much bullshit down people’s throats simply because they have been given the tools to do so. Why should I be willing to look at what you’ve done if you can’t ask me to yourself? And besides all this, when you have been kicked down over and over again, it’s your ego that tells you to get back up and make something better.