How Can I Write—An Essay in 20 Questions?

What the hell, sure.

As I hold this heaviness, I wonder, what comes next? What comes next does not feel like hope, but—

Discouraged is the word I would use. Who am I? And what of the Substack?

But the thing is, the time will pass anyway, and I will write anyway. It’s hard to really commit to so much writing when I feel so insignificant.

My friend tells me writers want to take back the em-dash. It serves a purpose, these writers, they say.

And it’s not that I don’t agree.

I’m saturated. Oversaturated. Crank that dial.

You know what I mean?

And who am I? Added chatter?

You didn’t ask but while you’re here, I might as well tell you. Words can be separated by commas, like this, to denote an aside. Parentheticals do something similar (for me kind of a whisper). But the em-dash—wow—that’s really something. Feels like holding your hand up to your face so no one can read your lips at a party. Feels like juicy gossip.

Do the robots gossip? Not yet.

And yesterday. The drizzle more of a haze. Flecks of water on my phone reflected blue, red, green, and I am overcome with the beauty of it. Will I remember this?

And this morning, the air through the open bathroom window smells like San Francisco. I look through the slice of open window to greet the fog. Then I feed the cat and get back in bed.

Do the robots—

I found something out recently, something I have no business knowing, reveled in it—because it felt like divine justice. And isn’t that what being human is all about?

I’m serious. Maybe all we have right now is the primary colors of light refracted off my phone screen and petty karmic revenge. And is that enough?

No. Of course not. But what can I do about it?

My friend does this event called Despair Sanctuary. It’s a doom metal concert, and it takes place in the church where I graduated high school. I think of it as a sauna for despair and rage and anguish. I sit there and I feel it. And it doesn’t feel good but it feels helpful. Holy.

Did you know that holy means set apart?

But at the last Despair Sanctuary—I felt so good that day, I couldn’t despair. After reading my prose poem, the pews crowded, all these faces looking at me from the dark. I felt as if I’d shed a layer of skin. A good mood is wind in my sails. Are you aware of how fickle the fates can be?

For instance: I haven’t been able to sit down and focus on my writing for maybe a month now. And it’s the middle of the night, and I’m typing like a maniac—I can say it—into my phone, trying to capture whatever I’m going to say next. Was I going somewhere with this? Does it matter?

It doesn’t matter whether it matters or not. But it’s all very important. To me at least. Especially the writing.

In my high school creative writing class we learned to write three kinds of essays—narrative, descriptive, and expository. If memory serves me, which it often does not, an expository essay begins with a question and writes to solve it. This essay began with the intention of asking questions and is now asking very few.

Are you still there?

And the robots do not write with elliptical language. They do not invent new metaphors. And yet it seems like everyone would rather sound the same, give themselves away with the uninspired em-dash the chat spits out. Now that everyone can write, we’re flooded, and so what of my skill, my talent, my passion?

Time will pass anyway. Even when I'm not physically typing, I chew on language. If you like what you’re reading, maybe someone else you know would too.

I understand that what is mass popular is rarely experimental and cross genre. Do I tag this as poem or essay?

I am asking myself all these questions. In search of—

Is hope even possible?

And, supposing it is, what then?