I am Writing a Book

I write when I feel I am about to sabotage myself, so you can imagine the volume of material I have in my Word docs. Compiling that racket into a book has been on my mind for a few years. So I suppose I should get on with it.

Now that I’m utterly alone in life, I guess there’s nothing else to do than become the artist I’m meant to be.

Anyway, please enjoy what will eventually be the foreword of my book:

I went from “I would rather die than write an artist statement” to “I will write a book one day,” And I’m not sure when that changed.

This message is coming to you from before it is written, so I don’t entirely know it’s contents. But it will be so painfully unapologetically me. I feel like it will be a collection of autobiographical anecdotes meets a TED Talk for the mentally ill. And probably some other shit that will be so off topic that it will seem as if it were a page ripped from a different book.

The problem is, I think I’m interesting. But of course, I think I’m interesting. How many people don’t think they’re interesting? I’ve lost the ability to gauge what is appealing to others and what is only of interest to myself. Social media did that. Millions of likes on a video of a preteen girl reviewing a lip gloss, and very little love for content attempting to unbiasedly explain the origins of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Hundreds of thousands have now been possessed to purchase THE VIRAL DRESS (I won’t specify because there’s been nearly infinite viral dresses between my time of writing this and the time you’re reading this). It’s been made so easy to lose touch with reality. So how can I quantify what people will find interesting? Will literature become more like social media? Is my book literature or is it content?

Someone once said, “If you make something for yourself, it IS for the people because you’re not creating something you THINK people want, you’re creating something out of passion, which is inherently interesting” - and you see, I can’t even remember who said that. Was it a famous director? A legendary writer? Or someone on TikTok? All information has become content, and is jumbled together to the point of being unable to untangle or research the source.

This book will be so self-serving. It will be riddled with painful self-awareness and the disgust of being human. The vibe will go from the self-aggrandizing “I am the voice of my generation” to the self-flagellating “ Why are you even reading this book?” And I do not know how to prepare you for these highs and lows. I’m writing it for myself. However, I do hope that while I do this extremely self-serving thing, maybe it becomes a source of comfort for those who struggle like me, while also serving as a tool to describe the weird, intense friend to the normies who don’t understand them.