Writing, My Artistic Liaison

It would be silly for me to sit here and explain to you the significance of sex in art as most seminal pieces were inspired by the flames and throws of passion. A passion inspired by the fiery burning of loins. Of sex. Of life and love. Of hate and disaster. Great art isn’t born—it’s inspired by events of tragedy, love, lust or fury. And as I am no expert on art as a whole, I am an expert on my art and my art is painted in words.

Writing is my artistic medium. On paper I sound infinitely better. On paper I am the hero of everything I write. In print, I am a god, a sex god. I write about sex and trouble and having trouble with the opposite sex. This is how I define myself as an artist. I take my experiences, the stories of friends, family and co-workers and I study them. I think them through. I re-write them. I fiddle with them, fondly fingering them in places where they are stagnant. Through this I give them life. I am a veritable glass blower of words.

Writing is my art and I live and die for it. It’s a violent relationship. One categorized with the polarity of extreme love and hate. The Desdamona to my Othello and like Othello, I love it so greatly I sometimes would rather destroy it than allow it to be loved by any other. My rage is often categorized by my jealously of the craft’s lack of simplicity. Why am haven’t I written the GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL yet? I begin to brood and swear off writing, killing it from my life, suffocating it till it’s last breath and biding it out of my life forever. Forever, that is, until I realize I cannot live without it, my true love of nominal proportions.

Then I quit writing and dedicate my time to self improvement—which may or may not be very graphic sex. But sooner or later I begin to go mad. There is an artistic and intellectual void in my life that sits on my chest eating away at me like water pouring down a drain. As this giant gaping vortex grows, violently eating away my life and my hopes, I give up and run back to it. There is a certain co-dependent relationship that an artist establishes with his medium. And I find myself melting in the grasp of writing time-and-time again. Art like sex drives the dreams of champions and I like being driven. I like it a lot.