We’ve known each other a long time and have been through so much together. Some of our experiences have been beautiful and unforgettable; others have been brutal and abusive. Words can’t describe how much I love and resent you. Yes, I realize that’s ironic and dichotomous—jeez, Writing, I’m not a total idiot … despite what most of my high school English essays may have implied.
Were it not for you, Writing, I would not be a writer today. And for that I will be forever grateful and tormented. Emphasis on forever. You see, Writing, no matter how hard I try to ignore you, suppress you, take a break from you, LEAVE you, I always come back. Sometimes I come running and jump into your arms; other times I drag myself kicking and screaming across shards of glass and lay myself at your feet. Our relationship is the most passionate and dysfunctional and magical and toxic one I've ever had. Considering I once dated a strip-club bartender poet, that’s saying something.
Someone very wise once told me, “A writer saying they’re quitting writing is like an immortal saying they’re quitting living. Both need to save their breath and just keep doing what they hate to love. Forever.”
Okay, fine—maybe it wasn’t someone very wise but rather me in a recent tweet. And not to pat myself or my tweet on the back, but that quote above is everything in a nutshell. I hate to love you, Writing. You’re that drug I’ll never kick. You’re my crack, my heroin. You’re the tiny white pill I pop before going to the dentist or a wedding. You fill me with euphoria and bliss and warm fuzzies that never end—until they do end and leave me a little shaky and constipated. Yet I keep coming back for more—three or four hours every day, even if it means cutting quality time with family and friends and pets. Even if it means skipping a workout or a meal or a shower or another shower.
And we both know me coming back for more will never stop, Writing. Doesn’t matter if my existing novels stop selling or if my upcoming novel doesn’t get everyone buzzing or if my work-in-progress puts me in a chokehold. You’ll have to kill me first, Writing. And someday you will—just don’t expect me to go gently. Be ready for me to fight back. Hard.
I guess all I’m really saying is this: I can’t quit you, Writing.
Sometimes I want to.
But more importantly, I never will.
Much love and a little hate,
Greg
ON HIS BEST DAYS, ZERO SLADE IS THE WORST MAN YOU CAN IMAGINE. HE HAS TO BE. IT'S THE ONLY WAY TO SAVE THE LOST GIRLS.
