There’s this poem by Charles Bukowski that triggers writers online to no end. It’s called ‘so you want to be a writer’, you can find it online but I’ll include a little part of it here:
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
Not hard to see why some folks get triggered over it right? Personally, I appreciate the sentiment , Mr. Bukowski. But I can hardly agree in entirety with what you propose in this elegant poem. I will say I will never be as great a poet as you. I’m sure you knew that already, not very many poets in the modern age come close.
Not that there’s much competition. Rupi Kaur looks good on Instagram stories I guess, but if you ask me most poetry books are a waste of paper (so much empty space!). Although, if I ever get published, I’m sure people will say that about my work too. So let’s call it what it is, a moot point.
Now don’t get me wrong, I like this poem. I don’t usually enjoy poetry that isn’t old or from the middle east, but Charles Bukowski has a working man’s tendency to tell it like it is, and tell it beautifully.
This is one example of that. I mentioned in one of my essays the concept of flow, specifically how I came to experience said state when stressed out of my mind regarding the outcome of the 2020 presidential election in the United States. Now, I have rarely felt this way about the things I write. I have a tendency to judge the things I put out before giving them a chance to sit and fester, or stew depending on my mood that day. I am hasty with my judgement, I accuse my work of being insufficient before giving it the opportunity to breathe. Writing is lifelike in its ability to mould and flow as it grows and develops.
And that begins with a spark, a moment from which to launch itself off of. And I work diligently every day, or every other day nowadays to ensure that I give my mind the place and time to do so. But alas, it never seems to work out that way. And it might never, but the words of the great Charles Bukowski linger in the back of my mind. It’s a constant doubt, a constant worry if I am doing the wrong thing since I am struggling so mightily with it. The writing, the words or whatever, they don’t come surging forth. They don’t possess me as they seem to do with that hallowed poet, they eke out just barely, flutter like nervous wings, before wafting away like dying smoke. It’s incredibly frustrating, and I can hardly do a thing about it but look internally and wonder if I am the problem in this equation. Perhaps I am.
This poem makes me feel as though I am a pretender. Art does not come bursting forth from me. It has and always will be a struggle. Or will it?
Perhaps a part of this poem needs to be analyzed and interpreted differently. I am no longer a teenager and my angsty analysis has no weight in the world of adults. Perhaps Bukowski is telling us to find our confidence and affirmation within ourselves. Make ourselves the audience we seek to satisfy. To stop prematurely putting a box on our creative outlets because they may not suit popular tastes. Perhaps this isn’t an example of gate keeping but rather a cautionary tale to the neurotic artist on the verge of giving up.
Stop worrying, start writing, and tell that Bukowski in your head to shut up.
