I Know Nothing About Anything, But I Want to Be a Writer

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I know nothing about anything. Sad to say but it’s pretty much the truth. And yet I want to be a writer. When I consider my self-image, I envision a younger man, waking before dawn, energized and inspired to give birth to imaginary worlds that marvel and entertain.

That image of myself is a fantasy. I’m no longer a young man; I’m completely nocturnal, going to sleep after sunrise rather than waking before dawn, and completely devoid of inspiration and imagination. And I know nothing about anything.

It also doesn’t help that my fingers are often dyslexic, forcing me to produce my words orally rather than on a keyboard. Right now I’m using SpeechTexter, a free Website I discovered after completely giving up on Dragon Naturally Speaking. The app has its quirks, but all in all it suits my purpose.

However, the problem here is that my vision is of myself creating great works while sitting in my screen enclosed patio – where my vocalizations might be overheard by a neighbor out walking his or her dog, who will not recognize my utterances as fiction. My neighbors already think of me as strange.
And as I said, I know nothing about anything.

For the last 23 years, I have owned a small Internet marketing and search engine optimization agency. It is a profession where strategies, which are merely theories, to begin with, change every six months. I could have been in a coma for twenty-two and a half years and be as knowledgeable as I am today. Please don’t tell my clients.

To make matters worse, neither marketing nor search engine optimization is a particular passion of mine. It’s just what I do to pay the mortgage and keep my kid in college.

But passion or not, it does require a lot of time and effort to keep up with all the insane speculations and changes and so for twenty-three years, I have devoted my time to learning a skill in which I have absolutely no interest, sacrificing all things that I find stimulating.

I have never loved money. I like having some. I like the ability to order pizza and Chinese food without budgeting, but I have never had any love of riches. To me, the only purpose of money is to buy my freedom from ever giving a shit about money.

Unfortunately, my not being predisposed to wealth has left me with a Social Security check which will not permit for culinary discretion. It barely pays enough to sleep under a roof, (that’s a story for a later date) forcing me to continue the work that has bored the fuck out of me for the last two decades. I know that I will inevitably die at my desk… actually on my couch, since I do most of my work on a laptop, with little hope of retirement.

It’s not a bad life. I figured out a way to maximize my freedom through outsourcing menial time-consuming tasks (including ironically content writing) and now have the time, should I take it, to do what I have wanted to do all along: to write.

And that brings me back to the inescapable fact that after spending all this time immersed in a wasteland of marketing instead of increasing my depth and understanding of the world, I know nothing about anything!

Writing, for me, at this time, is largely a whoring endeavor. I need to perpetuate my existence by earning at least a modest source of income to supplement the meager government droppings for which I’ve worked for the better part (I actually hate that expression. Work was never the better part of my life; the better parts involved drugs, adventure, and romantic encounters) of sixty-eight years, while at the same time paying tribute to my creative spirit through the immersion into something that makes me glad I’m still breathing.

I recognize that writing has little financial value in this intellectually stunted world, but at least when the trip is over and my body decays enough for the neighbors to notice the odor, whoever finds me will see a smile on my face and perhaps a story worth reading. On the other hand, it’ll probably be trite and fairly boring, since I know nothing about anything.

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