I used to always think about sex. How to have it, where to have it, whether anyone, anywhere would be remotely interested in having it with me. And not just that. Boobs and butts and naked women on horses too. Importantly, I was not having sex. I mean, eventually I did, when I was 19, and then again a few times after that, but the thoughts just kept coming. And the shame, my god the shame. Did I do too much? Was I too weird? Partners would say “that was nice” but did they mean it? Wouldn’t they say something more like “amazing holy shit wow” if they meant it? Did I even enjoy it? Yes but only if they did, otherwise no definitely not. I don’t spend all day thinking about sex anymore. Now, I spend all day thinking about writing. How to write, where to write, whether anyone, anywhere, would be remotely interested in reading what I wrote. And not just that. The pens to write with, how many likes my last post got, how to write while riding naked on a horse too. And the shame, my god the shame. Was it too much? Did I get too weird? Readers say “wow that was so good” but do they mean it? Wouldn’t they say “wow that changed my life” if they meant it? Did I even enjoy it? Yes but only if they did, otherwise no definitely not. What boggles my brain most is the absurd disparity between how much time I spend thinking about sex or writing versus how much time I actually do those things. Like if you asked a mathematician to calculate that ratio they wouldn’t be able to do it. Trust me I’ve tried and they all just look at me, limbs akimbo, and say “Alex, no more. Trying to solve this has broken our calculators and computers and it even broke Larry’s fridge.” its the panic for meIt’s not even that thinking about writing is categorically bad; what ruffles my chips is how I am always thinking about writing. The anxiety of it, the panic of, “why aren’t i writing right now i need to be i need to be writing more there are so many ideas and not enough time to write any and the ideas i have suck but maybe that one about how we’re moving away from science and back toward the weird could be good yea right like i could ever handle such a thing with the gravitas and heft it deserves etc amen and god bless our troops.” Even while writing, I am thinking about writing. Take the paragraph above: as I was writing it, I explicitly thought about how I thought certain writers on Substack dot com would judge it as weak. Pathetic. I heard one writer in particular – whose work I’m not even sure I like – say to his friends laughing, “just man up and do the hard work and stop complaining about it you little bitch.” I know it’s harsh but it’s what he said! I wish I could just trust in myself and my work; trust something good will come. Have faith that even though what I’m writing right now might be dog shit, it will one day not be. Why is all of that so hard? Well, let’s go back to the sex. There’s that Oscar Wilde quote: “Everything in the world is about sex, except sex. Sex is about power.” Power in all its sundry shades of that which we want but cannot be sure that we have: status, respect, desire. Maybe that’s what I really want when I’m writing? Writing stuff in the 21st century (that’s this one) means writing online, and writing online affords you a great many gifts that people like Oscar Wilde could never dream of: direct access to your readers, most importantly, but it comes with the serpent’s kiss of being quantified. Power in all its sundry, data-driven shades: likes, comments, and the golden goose of metrics itself: conversions to paid. Data rules everything around me (DREAM)How does this end? We’ll all die soon, the internet included, and then what? Will I sit my grandkids down and tell them about how many banger posts their ol grampappy used to drop onto the internet? I mean, yes, I will, but I will hide it in a few levels of ironic detachment so Lauren and our friends who aren’t yet dead can all laugh about it while also acknowledging, tacitly, how true it is. ok but alsoI stopped writing this because EJ was crying and I had to go and get her and now I’m in her room and she’s sorta chillin in her crib so maybe I can finish this but now she’s crying for real so I have to stop. — I’m back but time is running out because she just started crying upstairs with Lauren who is on a zoom call for Asheville therapists ok shit I have to go. the infinite gameShe did eventually nap, but by then Wilder was home, so we played an insane game with this tiny green basketball. There were no rules, just kicking it around and laughing so much we forgot about everything else. About halfway through, I realized that this was the infinite game — the game played to continue playing. And all this shit on Substack, these are the finite games — games played to be won.
Maybe it doesn’t matter what you’re doing - sex, writing, sex and/or writing while atop a horse – all of it can be played as a finite game or an infinite game. Play to win or play to play. Do sex to win or do sex to do sex. Write to win or write to write. Engage in various activities while atop a horse to win or simply to engage in those activities? I know the right answer is the latter, yet still some big part of me yearns to climb the ladder and win. But it never feels very good when I do. As Leandra Medine Cohen told me recently when I interviewed her for The Sublime (deets coming soon!), “praise is cheap fuel.” The best times in my life, whether writing or sex or - no, no more horse stuff - have all come when power and winning disappear and the ego does too, leaving you lost in the experience, one with it, infinite.
Subscribe to my OnlyWordsWas that good for you? Want more of it? Then subscribe to my OnlyWords aka my substack aka Both Are True. You get access to paid only essays like the ones below AND the knowledge that you’re supporting a very clearly insecure and on-the-edge writer fulfill his dumb little dreams! You can read posts like:
Comments
You're currently a free subscriber to Both Are True. For the full experience, upgrade your subscription.
|
