Don’t Date a Writer

In our information age, where all knowledge is free, and anyone can write, maintain a blog, publish a book, and otherwise call him or herself “a writer,” it is assumed by some recreational writers or non-writers that writing is not only fun and easy but that by simply providing a writer a reason to write is a favor which ought to be repaid somehow. (By writing?) Moreover, just writing alone is reward enough for writing. The same would apply to the opportunity to give advice to strangers who demand it. It’s a privilege! Thank you all!

As a purveyor of a free blog I suppose that I perpetuate these notions. I even take advantage of my circumstances in that I answer to no one in writing it. Even the most diligent muckraker will be unable to show bias that doesn’t exist in terms of whatever economic forces might shape my opinions. I exploit my unique position to present an unbiased opinion to the public albeit couched in anonymity.

Feminism, Anthropogenic Global Warming, and Health-Nannyism however, have plenty of deep-pocketed agendas. I am opposed to those ideologies.

My blog does in fact have several missions. Sure, I enjoy doing it but it isn’t for nothing.

One of those missions is romance. I’m a girl and that’s my first priority. Once that is in place, I have loads of energy for bigger and better things, as is my track record. This first mission is a tall order, of course. I have no illusions in that regard. I’m not only over the hill but behind the times.

Another of those missions is to get a finger on the pulse of the world I largely left behind in order to marry and be a homesteader of sorts in Venezuela.

Another of those missions is to flaunt my stuff in terms of possibly one day reentering “the workforce” as most people know it, albeit ideally as not just another “working stiff.” I am however losing heart in terms of finding a boss and a lover in the same man, for, as described further, such a man both interested and capable of the same roles probably need not trouble himself with the difficulties of such engagement with a writer.

Another of those missions was to attempt to locate my missing international con artist husband. I’ve put that mission on hold for now pending further developments.

Another of those missions and perhaps the most important one is to express my views in a multitude of ways, such that if I fail in the other missions, I will have at least left my electronic footprint on the world in terms of a cautionary tale, as concerns the agendas and trail of tears of Feminism, Cultural Marxism, Atheism, Health-Nannyism, Climate, Nutrition, and other forms of Universal Morality/Government agendas a.k.a. Utopianism, and, frankly, whatever else may come to mind in terms of soap-box-worthy notions in my view.

If I can or can’t save myself, I at least want to feel that I have a purpose of some merit in the universe. Ideally, this purpose will in fact save me somehow, even if today, I’m unsure of the form that salvage will take. It would appear however that this last mission will subvert my first mission in some form.

Back when I was in college, on a scholarship, as a former teen-aged runaway, I entered into a specific concerted writing program. One of the achievements of that program was for my professor to announce that my own project of the time was in her view “the most finished” of all the other student projects. I do not delude myself that this particular lauded state was due to some great talent that I had that my other classmates did not but rather to the truism of writing which is that one must write about what one knows, and I happened to have known a bit more about life than my older classmates.

One of the areas of writing in which apparently I shone was in my ability to write dialog. That ability was doubtless formed by my fly-on-the-wall status with older adults who had decided that I was safe to include in a variety of conversations and endeavors. The breadth of experiences of those adults across various demographics informed my ability to pick up on dialect and lingo. However, I suspect that this ability of mine is now largely out-of-date given my current largely isolated existence and the vagaries of the Dating by Catalogue and Tamagotchi Complex era that we live in, but within which I only just barely reside. However, I am actively working to change my ability to navigate popular dialog by getting out, socializing, having conversations with strangers, and yes—when I can’t find a reason not to which is most of the time—online dating.

Back in college, one of my short stories was inspired by individuals who I had known there, as well as some known elsewhere; however, although I put in place deliberate modifications in order to disguise their identities, some of the real life individuals seemed to recognize themselves in the story, even if this recognition might have resulted in choosing the wrong characters with which to identify. My biggest mistake was inserting a caricature of myself therein which added enough realism to cause others to become obsessed about identifying themselves. This was a power that I didn’t want but is apparently part of the price for being a writer capable of writing fiction that seems like it isn’t. Jerzy Kosinski who has served as an inspiration for me on more than one occasion, had a similar lament.

Whereas other classmates, in the fine arts program, who engaged in the practice of photographing, sketching, and painting my nude body as an artist’s model didn’t feel that their practice was in any way equivalent to my own art form and therefore couldn’t understand why I felt entitled to engage in it. In other words, use of my youthful body, with it’s obvious future expiration date, was worth nothing in terms of the morals of the day, whereas use of selected characteristics from a live human within fiction could negate a friendship. Huh?

Meanwhile, according to the morals of today, the use of my own time and craft to create personalized prose and erotica for the benefit of individuals who have no particular material investment in me, is apparently the price of courtship or friendship for me, because as a writer, my craft is worth nothing. In what manner after I invest such time for apparently no return am I obligated to exclude selected characteristics of such an individual that don’t specifically identify that individual from my writing? I don’t see it. I call that fair game!

It is no wonder that so many writers limit their own social activity.

When I chose to leave the cloistered and pampered college environment of my youth it was largely because I decided to stop writing fiction and short stories as not worth the social hassle, and to instead first get any job in the real world for which I was qualified. I was then to become a technical writer, which, I believed, was to cause me less in the way of emotional fallout from other human beings.

One of the events which informed that decision was the Silicon Valley Boom of the times. It seemed like a no-brainer recipe for achievement and success, which were two things I had been told that I should want, rather than say marry and attach my star to a man rather than forging my own. However, such things were out of fashion with the people who I had been led to believe were my peers to include my largely much older lovers.

Nowadays, I write more about my own conclusions and life itself than either fiction or technical writing. The things I write about include my various romantic forays, past and present. However, I do not disclose confidential information or otherwise “out” anybody who hasn’t consented to it, with the exception of The Han, of course, and I reserve the right to do damage in kind to anyone attempting to so damage me. While I may be inspired by various real individuals, I change details, combine archetypes, and otherwise protect confidentiality. That hasn’t stopped certain individuals from circumventing my efforts and effectively outing themselves, but I tend to delete such comments, depending on the forum in which they appear, and whether I personally have the power to do so.

In order to both protect confidences and to avoid making my blog into some sort of gossip column, I engage in “composites”, distortions of the timeline, and otherwise blur real life in all of its forms for purposes of making points, illustrating concepts, and otherwise conveying messages. Sometimes these messages have specific individual audience members in mind, but they are always plural audience members rather than specific individuals among the hundreds who visit this blog every day. However, for those who assume that their importance in my life is elevated, it is entirely possible that my blog seems like it is all about them. To those persons I say, “join the club.”

Jerzy Kosinski lamented that so many people assumed that even his fiction was nonfiction to the point of interviewers who queried, “Mr. Kosinski, how many people have you assassinated?” The answer is “None.”

For the record, I accept his defense made against accusations of plagiarism and other malfeasance, even if eventually the pressure on his friends and family and the futility of it all prompted him to take his own life.

Some people are incapable of distinguishing fiction or composite characters from real life. To those people the television must appear as if it is speaking only to them.

Men who assume that they “own” me having only shared minute experiences of me will harbor their delusions with no help from me.

Part of the lie of The Sexual Revolution is the notion that a woman shall always have “value” regardless of her age or level of sexual experience. While I do indeed see that all persons have value, that value changes over time, by biological and psychological necessity. If, in our collective past, a woman’s value in The West was guaranteed by her husband, family, and community, in the modern age, only The State and whatever lawyers a woman can either afford or attract guarantee that value. In my case, not willing to play the game of The State, all out of money to spend on expensive lawyers, and having a story that so far doesn’t have an interest group that wants to promote it and otherwise invest in it for my own benefit as well as their own, there are no guarantees.

In a way, that makes me “like a man”. Men are expected to “stand on their own two feet,” whereas women—all rhetoric to the contrary—not only aren’t expected to do this but few actually do. Only a father or similar figure interested in protecting his daughter from heterosexuality would entertain such a delusion. Women’s brains and muscles compete with the uterus for calories. Just how productive can a woman be with that handicap especially during one’s reproductive bloom? For some, it is plenty productive, however in terms of the spectrum of femininity, women fall short of the spectrum of masculinity. Deal with it. Those who approach masculine productivity are generally speaking only attractive to men who miss their mommies in some form, whether as a young princess who he first laid eyes on as an infant or some idealized media-driven form. Men who are transcended from their mommies, in my observation, desire a woman who will accept his authority rather then merely sexual dominance given or received. Such “authority” gleaned purely through electronic means however is every bit as regressive as the mommy-obsessed.

If all I required for my sexual satisfaction was some sort of BDSM recipe then surely I would be throwing myself into professional success right now so that I could buy it just the way I like it, rather than dealing with rank amateurs who think that my sharing of my rhetorical self implies some sort of covenant or contract.

Men who think that I will be monogamous and intellectually faithful to the mere idea of some sort of productivity provisioning from them, and assume that I as an “empowered” woman am already in no need of such provisioning given my own assumed economic and productive success, are as deluded as a Feminist for assuming that women don’t need men!

Without a tribe to adopt me, I am forced to hedge my bets and to assume nor give no loyalty. This blog is about me! It’s not about someone who is not here with strong shoulders and an insurance policy to cover my outcomes should he, say, die, go mad, take up drinking, decide that his experience with me has enriched and strengthened him enough to return to a previous relationship thus renewed, etc.

For a better offer, I would drop this blog like a bad habit, but certainly not as some sort of affectation as to demonstrate my neediness, loyalty, and ability to conform to some feminine archetype of an imaginary patron’s imagination. Meanwhile, even if I am not writing, my writer’s observational abilities in terms of the foibles of human existence aren’t likely to diminish. Therefore, it would behoove men to approach my mind with a degree of caution rather than some presumption that I am as gullible and malleable as all females of his experience.

I haven’t eliminated the possibility of accepting contributions for this blog one day; however, the idea that such will nudge me into compliance with modern morality makes me balk. For example, it is my observation today that Americans with children and even grandchildren are deluded that spending their money at big box warehouse food concerns is somehow sustainable in terms of leaving their children a decent world, rather than say, paying top dollar for the output of small local farms, patronizing local businesses, and otherwise creating a place and economy of value for their descendants. In other words, there is some sort of mixed up morality in terms of frugality that competes with having an interest in the future of one’s children. If at all possible, I would prefer to not be in a position such as to be forced to cater to that moral sense or lack thereof or risk appearing “extravagant” or even “condescending” in my values by not reproducing children I can’t afford to feed according to my own values. Oops I guess I just did.

Therefore, as best as I can tell, the only way to contribute to my blog without shaping it would be to do so posthumously, although that could also result in some form of influence out of my admiration for someone who would do such a thing without direct self-interest in the here-and-now. It’s a paradox, for certain.

Meanwhile, if the possibility that I might display some sense of independence or disloyalty by means of contributing my own writing to my own blog is considered a threat to any romantic possibility whatsoever, then such a man is advised to please go away. Don’t go away sad. Don’t go away mad. Just go away.

Next time, don’t choose a writer. Choose someone safe and easy that doesn’t challenge your conceptions of what a woman is, or hire a pro.

As for me, I have no intention of remaining young forever. Should you be interested in the ride, all the way to the finish line, then perhaps you can persuade me that you and only you—not my international blog audience—deserve my undivided attention. An insurance policy of some sort would however offer me more sense than empty rhetoric or emotional appeals. Meanwhile, longevity, security, and romance are simply not sufficient motivators for me to entirely subsume my ideals anymore, and therefore it is entirely possible that this blog shall impede all efforts of mine toward romantic connection.

At least this doesn’t require me to lobotomize myself in order to gain satisfaction from it.

6 thoughts on “Don’t Date a Writer

  1. Pingback: Ego Clusterfuck | caprizchka

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