Here’s a little monster of a manifesto, all jangly bones and loud squawks, just for you.
I was asked about why I write and I always meet that answer slightly differently because it’s forever evolving.
So let me tell you something true. A bit of real talk.
I do not give a rabid raccoon’s ass if you read my emails or posts or gory scribbles or sweary-word-laced stories. Seriously.
Apathy, has set up a lawn chair inside my soul and is enjoying a tall glass of I-Don’t-Give-A-Damn.
And here’s why…
I write because it’s what I do. It’s an all-consuming, devouring flame that would fry me from the inside out if I didn’t push these words through my fingertips like demonic confetti. Love it, hate it, read it, ignore it. Whatever.
But don’t mistake me. You are all voyeurs…
Peeping through my digital curtains, rummaging around for the hot stuff. And I see you. I see your eyeballs lurking in the internet shadows, waiting to pounce when something hits that sweet spot. (We can call it a “viral moment,” but it’s really just some weird stellar asteroid thingy lining up like some vampire goose cackle to say, “Hey, read this, or else!”)
And that’s when you’ll show up, face in the light, making yourself known. Maybe you’ll tweet me. Maybe you’ll show up in my DMs, or buy me a coffee. Maybe you’ll just give me this Internet-tap on the shoulder: “Hey, friend, read your thing. Took some action.” And that’s cool like a chilled margarita, but it’s also not the goal. The goal is the writing. That intangible bliss of words frothing over like a cappuccino machine gone haywire.
(Side note: Last time I used a cappuccino machine I nearly set everything on fire. So yeah. Use that knowledge however…)
Could you read every little shred of nonsense I shovel onto a page? Sure. Do I need you to? Absolutely not. But if you do, you do. My heart grows three sizes, Grinch-style. If you don’t, I’ll keep tapping away anyway because that’s the thing about being a writer of words. You do it because you can’t not do it. No different than a cat hacking up hairballs. It’s gonna happen no matter who’s watching.
So read, don’t read, peep like a creeper or share it with your mother-in-law. I’m not bothered either way. Because I’m over here, feeling the itch in my fingers, collecting stray syllables and weird phrases from the wind, spinning them into something, anything and that’s the real payoff. The words are the spark. The rest? Just icing on the weird, wonderful, writerly cake.
Cheers for sticking around so far.
Stephen Walker
https://stphnwlkr.com/theleague
P.S. I wrote this on the apple notes app and you know what, it’s not that bad, except I did drop the phone on my face a few times. So I guess it’s time to get out of bed, grab a coffee and do some more of that writer-ly stuff.
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Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom