What If I Surrendered My ‘Writer’ Identity?

By that, I mean, what if I did what many, many bloggers do these days–cater to the needs of readers, simply to earn reads, recommends, responses, etc?

What if I looked for popular topics, instead of creating my own?

I lose uniqueness and originality. I willingly turn off my creativity.

What if I made those abhorrent listicles and encouraged the new ways of extremely short attention spans?

I would become as repulsive as anyone else who does it purely for attention, for the desperate desire for readers to give even the slightest of a shit about what they have to say. (Although, it isn’t really what they have to say, it’s just bullshit they steal from someone else.)

You know what truly sickens me about all this? How many, many people claim to be writers, when in fact, all they want is to tell people what to do and how to do it, with their pathetic ‘life advice’ bullshit. Everyone tells you the same damn thing in every fucking post. Heck, it’s as if everyone copies everyone else but changes a few words.

I refuse to be categorised with the same physically revolting idiots who have taken a beautiful, ancient craft and turned it into something that they could use to earn money (not saying you should refuse any and all payment for it, the world requires you to have at least some income, but doing it FOR the money without the passion makes you worthy of being shot in the eye), without caring about having their own unique style, without even doing what it was made for–saying what they have to say with their own voice. Sharing their ideas and messages with the universe. Self expression. The artistic, beautiful choice of words that paints images in the minds of others.

Writing and reading are almost like telepathy. They see something that only existed in your mind, before you committed it to paper.

So, no. If you’re doing it for the money, for the fucking attention, I refuse to call you a bloody writer. The mere thought of you makes me terribly nauseated.

To those who understand the value of writing, to those who cherish it, be they messed up beyond repair, the healthiest of people–I presume a rare occurrence amongst writers–or even a balance of both. I don’t care. As long as they value their own craft far too much to simply become just another damn listicle writer, I respect them.

Fucking think about it.