Why Bukowski Published Moving Work and I Don’t
All throughout college, I wanted to be as good at conveying how I felt as Charles Bukowski was. I felt so moved by the way that he described the world that it made me start writing. It was terrible poetry and stories, but I wrote.
I still strive to be that talented, but I’m not. There are lots of reasons why I still haven’t garnered his abilities to make people feel new feelings. At least now I know why.
I used to think that any good writer had to be some tortured soul in order to connect with that special sauce that is in every great writer. Think Hemingway (philandering liar), James Joyce (pompous ass), Stephen King (drunk cokehead), or Bukowski (Drunk Rapey Bum). Did their dark side create their talent? I think not.
Writers who I love usually have some dark stuff in the closet. For the longest time I thought that it was the darkness that made their writing spectacular. Like their torture was transmuted into rocket fuel that warped their vision into something supercharged. Their terrible humanness propelled them into dimensions that weren’t meant for mere mortals.
They would return with gifts from hell and share it with the rest of us and be lauded as visionary.
I was wrong. They are/were simply assholes who were great writers.
Their writing was so enticing because they were professionals; they lived their lives writing all the time. Every day was all about writing.
Bukowski was so addicted to writing that he worked sorting letters for the post office for nearly a decade. He did this while he wrote my favorite poems of all time at night in a panic.
That’s why he was great. He devoted his life to writing.
He wrote about desolation, deprivation, and despair because he was a twisted, tortured, and hated individual living on the margins of society. That’s not what made him a great writer; his talent for communicating those awful feelings and deeds in such a beautiful way came from his sheer dedication and willpower to write every goddamn day.
I’m sure he produced tons of garbage that he threw in the trash, never to be seen. Bukowski was highly insecure about what was seen by the public. He kept working and criticizing himself relentlessly. He kept the fire burning hot.
By the time he was in his fifties, he was pretty damned good. By the time he was in his sixties, he was a master.
This is how it’s done, bit by bit.
Right now, I suck. But someday, I’ll produce something that will make you re-examine your life. I’ll write something that makes you realize that you’ve been in a deep depression for over a decade without knowing it. I’ll write words that will make you fall in love with yourself, even if you’re a terrible person.
Until then, enjoy this swill that comes from my keyboard. I’m not as insecure as Bukowski, but I one day will be as talented as him.
Love,
Evan
