Writing for No One

You’re writing for no one. It isn’t what they tell you. They say you’re writing for someone, maybe a special someone or just anyone, maybe everyone. That’s one they like. But it isn’t true.

You see when you’re dead, then it was all for no one. And that’s how it always was; you simply couldn’t see it when you’re alive. Couldn’t see it because you wanted it to be for someone. Maybe a special someone, maybe anyone. 

It’s like when you look back and you see that the lover you held in your heart so deeply was insane. And they were really just a kid, and so were you. All the street smart wisdom—or lack thereof, only to become prophecy—was bullshit. It wasn’t really anything, not really, not for them. For her, I mean. For you it was something, maybe anything.

And, you can spell it out. Spell it out one letter at a time, one word, and so on. You can label it. You can diagram it. You can explain the labels and the diagrams and say, Oh, see this goes with that. You can get them to smile and nod. You can gnash their teeth and boil their blood. You can make them come. But it isn’t for them. It isn’t for anyone. You see?

So go ahead and grow your brand, build your base, amass your following, revolutionize publishing. Carve it on your fucking tombstone. You’re writing for no one. You see? No? Come and see.

And I saw: Someone wrote a check to you for five dollars. That’s not enough. So they write a check for fifty. Peanuts. So they write one for five hundred. No? How’s five thousand? How’s fifty thousand? Have five hundred thousand. Or five million. Or five-oh five, five-fifty, five hundred milly. Take five billion. It doesn’t matter. It isn’t enough. It can’t save you. Because you aren’t writing for anyone. You’re not saying anything, either. You’re writing for no one.

Does it matter? No, it doesn’t matter. It matters to you, maybe. But not to someone special, not to anyone. It’s for no one. You’re already cremated; you just don’t know it yet. You’ve been too busy doing things. 

You think it might be about you. Or maybe someone kind of like you? Or maybe someone you know, or someone they kind of know through someone. You need it to be about you, or them, about anyone, so it can be for someone. But it isn’t. It’s for no one.

You can stand at one funeral after another and still not get it, that you’re attending your own. You always were. There on the headstone. There you lie. You think you’re writing for someone, anyone, but you’re writing for no one.

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Next time on The Backbone: "Return of Mack the Knife (Nothing Ever Goes Away)"

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