Messy, Isn't It?

They say you are a failed writer. They say you never grew up. They say you wrote horrible poetry. You did write some horrible poems. But some of your writing is the best writing I've ever read. I'm sick of words and clever writers who are so good, they can write all day. Some things you write are broken, but I keep them, like I treasure a piece of driftwood -- just a hunk of flotsam, but it can't be manufactured, it is totally unique in all the world and will never happen that way again. Fuck perfection. Fuck being a great writer. Do you think you can actually capture it, the inexpressible thing, without mangling it with impression? Writing words about a feeling to express it, is like taking a flamethrower to a tree. People who criticize you don't like driftwood. They've probably never been to the beach, never got wet in the fog, never hiked anywhere, they don't know how to fish or build a fire, and they hate wool sweaters. People who look down on you live in a city, and they like to argue about world events, and they hate their landlord. Fuck them. I'm sorry you gave up. But I understand. Messy, isn't it?