Life is satire. That’s not a profound realization. It’s far from a modern Eureka! moment because there’s nothing modern about it. My low-hanging life goals so far have been based on that. I’m more amused by myself when I’m not naïve enough to expect the fulfillment of dreams.
I don’t write to become famous. I don’t even write to make money, although payments or offers to commission my brilliant skills are welcome if they ever hilariously come my way. Instead I work OH THE DULL OFFICE LIFE OF NUMBERS AND REPORTS that so many bohemian spirits trapped in a tertiary capitalist shell resent and abhor. Poets, or, ahem, “poets” mock me. But there are a few things still misunderstood:
- Numbers have colours and can create beautiful pictures only seen in my mind.
- By trial and error I attempt to fix other people’s problems, which keeps my left hemisphere just as exercised as my right.
- I work with THE DULL OFFICE LIFE OF NUMBERS AND REPORTS for other companies, meaning while I use and interpret the numbers and build and translate the reports I can still giggle inside about the accumulated mess that the socially constructed realm of “finances” in modern economies has created, as these specific numbers have little bearing on me.
- And also, I get free coffee.
If I wrote for a living so many of these things would be lost on me. And if I were a self-employed freelancer and could play by my own rules, I would be forced to deal with far more complicated income taxes every year – the socially constructed realm of numbers and reports that DO have a great bearing on me, in a very direct way, whether I were to work with them myself or pay an accountant hefty sums to do it for me.
Some writers may say much of the whim and the art is lost when they have deadlines and word counts that ever so hyperbolically feel like knives held to their necks. If I wrote for a living my day to day subsistence would depend on deadlines and word counts as prescribed by other people. Since I write for a hobby, the knife held to my neck is by my own choice, for my own drive and rush of creative adrenaline, and if it gets too much I can call it off with the designated safe word. Yes, I’m comparing leisurely writing to BDSM. And no editor can take that away from me.
So I’ve kept writing as a hobby for these reasons. I’ve kept photography as a hobby for similar reasons, and because I hate weddings and other people’s babies. (I don’t hate my own babies because it’s hard to hate something that does not and will never exist. And if I ever did get married and throw a wedding to match, I would probably hate it even though it’s my own.)
And, to make the opening sentence of this piece actually relevant to what further mumbling produced, life is satire and everybody is living both the serious and joke versions of their lives at the same time. Written satires about writers’ lives are overdone, and so the living satires they’re based on come off as a dime a dozen. Writing as a hobby applies the perspective of satire to a broader base. I get far more amused from my own life, and I have far more things to write about than just…writing.