What, Then, Of The Fall From Great Heights?

I've been questionning myself, on the reason why I am so adament on being a writer, about why I want to write stories, why I want to be an author, why I want to be one of the greats, one day.

Why such an unatainable goal?

To be honest, the answer isn't as clear as one would think.

Don't get me wrong, I love writing finished stories, but they dont get much reads, most often none at all, and the work I put into them is tremendous!

Which brings me back to my question; why am I writing?

Why am I writing indeed...

I don't think it's merely to get published, to claim I am an author. I've walked between the shelves of countless libraries, and the thought of having my book at the bottom of the seventh shelf from the left of the second floor is beyond absurd to me.

I don't think it's simply for the sport of it, since I always find it so interesting when receiving any sort of feedback. Therefore, do I write for others, well, for any critique coming from others?

Or maybe I write as a way to better myself? To prove to myself, that I have the skill and talent to take up writing and become truly good at it, to become quite excellent, excellent enough to inspire respect and admiration from others...

After all, great writers are reverred, remembered forever, idolized even by everyone!

Perhaps that is my goal, to become one of the greats, to rise up and be remembered forever more, to carve a place for myself, among the notable writers of this world.

And how to become great, if not by having my writings be read and examined by the many?

Ha!

''The many'' being the masses of consumers, hungry always for more, for more, for more, give me more! ''And this masterpiece of the greatest writer ever is overrated, and tedious to read, but I've rated this obscure novel five stars because I am biased and silly.''

Sorry, I suppose I have something to say about the average reader, the average critique-giver, of this day and age, utterly shitting on a novel for no rational reason, dismissing the years of labor the author poured into it, simply because they didn't like the protagonist, or that the pacing was off, or that the descriptions were too long or that there weren't enough of it, or that there wasn't a twist ending, as if those were the paramount reason anyone would read a novel.

Wow, look at me go, dismissing all these valid points of criticism, as a way to protect myself from any judgment, claiming loudly that my novel is perfect! It's perfect I say!

What the hell am I even saying anymore... Maybe a different angle?

I suppose it's the same as my professional life, as a chef. Over the years, I've had many other cooks give shallow and crude criticism of my culinary creations, pointing out the shortcoming that only become evident once the meal is done and dusted, acting high and mighty for they surely wouldn't have done the same mistake I did! Yet if they had done it first, the result would have been abominable, deplorable to say the least!

What I am trying to say is, the opinion of the many on a finished project will often be biased, misguided, to be taken with a grain of salt - see what I did there?

And so, to go back to my initial question; Why am I writing?

Well it can't possibly be for the feedback of others, since others are utterly wrong and mistaken, and to be honest and rude, these others are also quite idiotic!

And before the masses shoo and boo and throw garbage at my vile opinion, let me say one thing; how empty the applause of the many are, and how shallow their praise is, and how temporary and silly their miscontentment, for they shall lash out at any other performer that dare do, say, or produce anything at all, for they are the AUDIENCE, and they alone are supreme, for after all, the perfomers are there for them! And they shall dance and juggle and provide any and all tomfoolery the audience desires, for they are to be entertained!

Yes!

There it is, ladies and gentlemen, the crux, the height, the apotheosis of my argument!

Writing is writing, the act of creation itself, and the result is art, and there is value, incredible value at that, in the act of creation, any creation. Despite this art being called entertainement, it does not reduce it to be simply called bad, to be dismissed as sub-par, to be called a poor attempt, art is pristine, untouchable,

this is art, everyone, and art is subjective, holy and quite frankly, art is above the petty squable of silly monkeys, there, I said it.

Take Van Gogh for example, that painted his whole life, unrecognized, without a penny, going insane and taking his life in utter isolation, until at last with time he became a legend, his life's work becoming known, respected, and more importantly, immortalized!

What a story, one to be truly jealous of!

And so, to be perfectly clear, the goal is to emancipate one's self from the gnawing moans of the masses, and hope for recognition despite of it, to create authentically, with the silly hope that despite one's utter disregard of the AUDIENCE, they shall revel and praise and respect the art one created.

With a clear and lucid mind I say, let me be this utter fool, lost in his art. Let me be this deluded, this devoted to my art, that no matter what, I shall get busy and create, for the sake of it, write, for the sake of it. And if my writing has any value at all, it shall be recognized in time, or abandonned and lost to time, ozymandias and all that.

How beautiful and fatal this outlook is!

I can only hope I won't cut off my ear in the future, emthralled by confusion and passion... I can only hope indeed.

Therefore, and with a heavy heart, I must proclaim, shout, affirm and reaffirm, that after all, I write for the sake of it; I write as an artist, for the sake of creation, as one folds and folds a piece of paper, and throws it in the air, atop a mountain's cliff, staring with awe, as the paper plane races and scurries in the air, or falls straight down, or reaches untold heights!

Heights, yes! These frightening heights. The distant knowledge that indeed, I am at last one the greats, and that nothing else can ever surpass this, much akin to the well earned climax of a story, where it all makes sense, where and when it all clicks, the heights of meaning! At that point, only one question remains;

What, then, of the fall from great heights?