After nineteen years, three viewings of A Christmas Story, two different copies of War and Peace, and a boatload of Dayquil doses for the inevitable Christmas Day Colds that always strike, I can honestly say that I’m as close to being worn-out as possible. Eh, I would love to come out of the starting blocks strong, making some prolific statement like “Down with Income Taxes!” or “Save the Peach Cobbler Supply!” as opposed to that pathetic little icebreaker. Unfortunately, the world just will not seem to cooperate with me this evening, so it’s back to the drawing board of ideas on how to start off a column. Of course, when you’re writing a column for the sake of writing something, anything at all, then it may be petty at best to argue over such a thing, no?

Why is it that writers like myself feel compelled to write something when no one asks us to? Is there some sort of reticence out there that compels us not to seek a normal, healthy social life, but instead to waste time out of our oh-so-busy schedules to write something that most people smirk at, enjoy for a few moments, or ignore altogether? Sure, there are collective groups of authors, journalists, and reporters out there that make it big in an otherwise Titanic-sized literary medium for expression. But, really, c’mon, it makes no difference if you write sports columns for a website or children’s books for Preschoolers. In the grand scheme of things, all we really are is storytellers, weaving the facts and/or mystical fallacies of this world so that we can craft a written world of grandeur for our “fan base” drones, who allegedly flock to every newspaper stand, book store, and wireless internet Café du Jour in the world to get a taste of our writing prowess. If this is an author’s testament to life once he reaches the afterlife, then mark me down as a future janitor at the local McDonald’s.

Look at it like this: if I were sitting at a computer, bored out of my little pea-sized mind, and I had a choice of playing Internet Checkers with a guy from Timbuktu, or reading a fluff piece about how the new reality show on FOX will revolutionize the genre, I would choose to play checkers every time. And so would most others put in the same position, too. Trust me, this has nothing to do with the reality television genre in particular, though whoever created such a God-awful batch of programming over on the big networks should be drawn and quartered, for sure. You could insert any column, article, online blurb or commentary here, because it doesn’t make a big difference. For all its worth, the only real storytellers are the ones that tell stories to begin with. Everyone else that picks up a pen or assumes the position behind a keyboard is a 2nd rate imitator at best.

There is a reason why people remember the great poets, humanists and playwrights like Shakespeare, Homer, Milton and Thoreau. These writers weren’t “in it for the money” (see also: the fame, in it for). They wrote because they had a passion for the dramatics of the real world and the not-so-real world. The art that encompasses their stories shine through the texts that they write, and can transcend time like few writers can. Think about it; when is the last time that you heard about the guy that was on hand to cover the attack on Pearl Harbor, or the rescuing of baby Jessica from the well in Texas nearly eighteen years ago? It’s the stories that shine through time, not those that merely recap them. This is partly the reason why internet column gurus and AP writers alike are, and will always be, destined to mediocrity when it comes to writing. They cannot create their own story from the events in life; they use the stories happening around them to fill a void in their imagination, which often extends only to the boundaries of their textual limits. The flaw in the perspectives of writers (myself included) is that we write to feel the gratification from those around us. Some might say that they write to express themselves, but honestly, when was the last time that you bought those new shoes to express your desire to treat your feet to stylish walking habitats? We do it for the bling, baby.

Maybe life is better off with all of us writers stumbling around in the darkness. The forum for budding young authors to express themselves is certainly thriving, and the general consensus is that writing amounts to good things. And hey, I’m not one to discourage the youth of the nation from writing all their thoughts down. Hell, be my guest, write ‘til your blue in the face and your fingers hurt. Just remember; try not to involve yourself in the egotistical showmanship that I fell into. If you expect to be respected by all for writing a ten page, sentimental fluff piece about the greatness of this country and all that, then be prepared to get a stern, swift kick in the body part of your choice. Just remember to drop me a line when the backlash begins, so that I can send you a vintage box of Tiddlywinks and serve you a nice big bowl of Told-You-So Soup.

Last 5 posts by Steve Price

• The High Lonesome - March 6th, 2006
• Southern Comfort: Remembering Eddie Guerrero - November 14th, 2005
• Southern Comfort: Lintheads and Lugnuts - October 24th, 2005
• Southern Comfort: Here's to Football - September 12th, 2005
• Southern Comfort: Why We Follow Sports - August 29th, 2005