My Back Pages

I must away now and forever lay down the burden of producing eight to twenty-four blog posts per year for a non-existent audience. I am several chapters into Rapshaldeo: The Untarnished Beauty of the Unbridled Soul, and a venture of such terrifying egotism requires all my time and attention. Having sojourned here for a decade, I will now down my last drink and depart from The Fair Observations. At the door, looking back, I feel I could indulge in the bitter-sweet, but there is little more for me to say. I have seen it all. This past decade has born witness to an abundance of historical events: Gangnam Style, Kony 2012, Harlem Shake, Pokemon Go, the disappointing ending of Game of Thrones, that time Jennifer Lawrence's iCloud account got hacked, Instagram, Snapchat, TikTok, the dress colour controversy, Caitlyn Jenner winning woman of the year, #harambe, planking, the ice bucket challenge, that meme with the six panels that explained what various people think your job is, 50 Shades of Grey (the book and film), #releasethesnydercut, Fortnite, Heelys, The Mannequin Challenge, fidget spinners, dyed grey hair, twerking, Farmville requests, Neknominate, and a clinically obsessive fascination Millennials.

There's always room for one more post or comment, I hear you say. One more belligerent episode with a working-class iconoclast; one last reference to the literary snot in you; one last chapter in the worst coming of age novel ever written; one last inappropriate reference to testes or wanking; one more stretching interpretation of Irish history; or one more unsolicited invocation of Tubbercurry, county Sligo. Of course, there always will be opportunity for one more, but as I always say, with the greatest solemnity, echoing the sage words passed down through the ages — it is what it is (unless and until it isn't). I have done my time. No longer will I cast my seed onto the hardened, barren soil of Twitter or try set up home in the pointless wasteland of Facebook.

What does the horizon hold for me then? There might be a Fair Observation Christmas special, or maybe even an ill-considered revival. A Netflix special twenty years from now perhaps, assuming Netflix is still a thing. Nigel may be gone, but, fear not, the Observations will live on forever. How I will accomplish this still proves to be a challenge. Digital publication is too precarious a means for preservation. Time or circumstance could easily erase the electronic hosts of the texts. Time alone will leave the formatting obsolete if not irretrievable, and the words will not make sense in a few short, ever-accelerating generations. Nobody will be reading my blog in one hundred years from now, never mind in ten thousand years. However, I find this to be comforting as, while the texts themselves will certainly vanish from history, my current status of virtual anonymity will be eternally preserved. Obscure beyond all the eyeballs of the world the blog will forever be, similar to how it is now, lost in the enormity of the internet. Highly literate people of the distant future will observe a fair flower undistracted by the reminder of my surname, in the same way as my contemporaries do. Readers nowadays (thankfully) do not think of me when they hear the name Nigel Farage in the same way the denizens of future ages will not think of me when they hear the name of another wanker called Nigel.

The timeless status and lack of popularity of the blog now safely preserved, what now for the one Nigel who isn't a wanker? My next project is completing my Rapshaldeo novel. As my primary writing tool is procrastination, this may take some time. I could try to just sit down and write and regular intervals, but a less daunting and more prudent approach is to keep my fragile human body animated forever. It is an enormous ask, but I will try. Most likely, it will involve some genetic modification, cybernetic implants, consciousness transplanted into a computer, 3D-printed flesh, colonisation of new planets, backing-up my memories onto advanced cloud storage, cloning, an indestructible robotic body, or a mixture of these. I haven't figured out how to survive the universe plummeting to absolute zero and all atomic motion ceasing. Then again, only the foolish believe that there is an impediment that innovation cannot overcome. The human spirit and technology combined cannot be dominated. Of this I am certain (I heard somebody say it at the end of a TED talk), and I will live on into the boundless eons. I hope you too live to see the day, so I will have someone to purchase my self-published novel.

I'll see you then.

The Last Joycean

Is it worth reading? This question, after some consideration, seems to me the most appropriate to explain the value of Ulysses. Other questions, such as, 'Would you recommend it?', or, 'Is it any good?', brush awkwardly against such a literary landmark. 'Would you recommend Shakespeare?', I might ask in return. You would enjoy it, but not without some mental exertion. Asking these latter questions returns absurd answers, almost comically failing to capture the book's significance. If you really would like an answer to them, ask the website Goodreads, where it holds 3.7 out of 5 stars score, lagging behind both Cecelia Ahern's  P.S., I Love You and Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code.

Challenging Modernist literature is a girl's best friend.

Many readers may feel too intimidating (or too bored) to advance beyond the first few pages. There is nothing to be feared, but I believe there are a couple of provisos when attempting to read such a text. Firstly, some annotated accompaniment is advised. As per the unwritten rules of art, I would ordinarily recommend reading a book alone before consulting external opinions (expert or otherwise). However, this book stands as a clear exception to the rule. The enormous wealth of literary references and shifts in style often prove impedimental. However, if you are guided by a thoughtful expert, and accompanied by good-humoured patience, those same encumbrances can become the very source of reading pleasure.

My second proviso pertains to that last point. A prospective reader should understand that a novel like Ulysses does not lead you from one plot point to another; it asks you to stop and grapple with intricate content of the text. If you are hurriedly rushing from one end of your life to the next, stopping only to check boxes on your to-do list, then reading Joyce will mean suffering for you. Conversely, if that last sentence describes you, slowing down to engage with a difficult text may be the very thing that will save you from wasting your short life. Itching to get from wherever you are to wherever you are not is surely a sub-optimal way to live. How often do we neglect the simple pleasure of sitting contently in the depths of an artfully crafted book, with no regard for the ticking of the clock? And how much poorer (and angrier and more anxious) is the world in the general absence of such delights?

That said, Ulysses is not without its challenges. Readers may feel like an alien in Joyce's Dublin, a place not entirely recognisable to contemporary denizens of city. Matters are not helped by a story replete with references and allusions to theology, antiquity, Irish history, and a broad range of literature. The structure of the book is mapped onto Homer's Odyssey, which gives us a handle on the story, but also another layer of allusions to grapple with. However, the book shines precisely because of these ostensible problems. Who among us would complain that a museum is too full of treasures and that absorbing all the information is a struggle? You would advise such a malcontent to take their time and to make multiple visits, not storm the building snapping all the highlights, just to say you have been there. 

And like any good museum or great art, Ulysses leaves you with an impression that lasts beyond the reading itself. With the humorous gravity that characterises much of Joyce's writing, the book traverses religion, colonialism, nationalism, heroism, the problems inherent in communication, the novel, gender roles, and a host of other ideas. The humble Odysseus of the book, Leopold Bloom, is as dignified, perverted, grounded, open-minded, absurd, and contented as any of us could hope to be. His day running errands around Dublin mirrors the hero's journey of the Homeric epic. One can appreciate the joke but might be inclined to ask if Joyce is imbuing heroism in the ordinary or trying to tell us that the heroic is risible? Perhaps both. What joylessness we would find in a definitive answer, and how definitively ruined is a vision of a better world if all the possibilities are already set. Indeed, it is this rejection of ridged thinking which Bloom can offer the more single-minded young artist of the book, Stephen Daedalus. Whether he does or not is not clear, as the crucial chapter, where the two men converse in Bloom's house, is written in the clinical language of a Catholic catechism - Joyce poking fun at religion, but also reminding us of the hazards of communication. And, indeed, having a laugh at the expense of the observant, sympathetic reader, who would like to see Stephen finally get the nurturing father figure who can truly guide him in life.

The book is, of course, not without its flaws. Some critics bemoan its unreasonable length, and in the depths some of the more formidable chapters lie readers past, who succumbed to the severity of the road. More damaging than anything else is the disappointing reality that this novel has been infected by 'woke' culture. The ending sees our hero, who we have accompanied nearly all book, yield the narrative to his wife. She is a background character who suddenly, in the last chapter, takes centre stage, babbling on pointlessly, in what is supposed to be to be an affirmation of womanhood. Now I don't mind a strong woman; many of my female friends are strong ladies. But clearly there's a feminist agenda at play. Such people say they are in favour of equality, yet where is our strong male character? We are only shown villainous boors and beta males. And she's unfaithful to her husband, but never called on it. If she was a male character, he would be the villain and her spouse the victim of a patriarchy of double standards.

This is not Joycean fiction. Joycean fiction is about a multitude of lives and people of different character, like in Dubliners, or a hero narrative about an artist, like A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Nowadays, because of "diversity" and virtue signalling, writers feel they have to include Jewish Hungarians and women in everything. And the self-assured young man that Stephen Daedalus was in A Portrait is now a loser full of doubts. The true fans wanted to see the adventures of the trail-blazing artist he had become, not this directionless fool in need of help from a weak cuckold. (He's literally a cuckold!) They think they can pull the wool over our eyes, but a middling score on Goodreads tells us that this is not the classic they say it is. Let's call it what it REALLY is: an objectively bad, Cultural Marxist piece of PC garbage, written by a soy boy leftist. 

Nigel Fairflower has started a GoFundMe campaign to raise enough money to have Ulysses rewritten by a committee of TRUE Joycean fans. If you ever want to read a sequel to A Portrait of the Artist that actually honours the source material, please donate to the cause at notmyjoyce.com. 

That's more like it. Even if he does look a little like Phil Collins.

Is Genghis Khan the Panacea for the Modern World?

Genghis Khan poses a quandary among those who aspire to be better and admire those who do. Most people are familiar with the name; he has the brand recognition of the Prophet Mohammed, the Beatles, or Buddha. In the popular, collective consciousness, he was a ruthless, barbarian, who marched his Mongolian hordes across Asia and Europe, bringing devastation wherever he went. Anyone familiar with Medieval history knows this to be a crude and inaccurate assessment. In reality, the Great Khan was a remarkable individual in possession of many admirable qualities. From a simple background, Temüjin Borjigin, as he known in his youth, rose circuitously along a difficult path to become the Khan of his tribe. From there, he united all the Mongolians. Not content to only rule the nomadic people of the Eurasian steppe, he ventured on campaigns of conquest, his empire eventually stretching from Korea to Hungary.

Like many other great figures of the past, we can only speculate about how he looked.

None of this was easy of course. Temunjin always had to contend with the threat of other Mongol tribes. He faced danger when rescuing his abducted wife, and his Mongol rivals did not yield easily. Almost every conquest proved a lesson, to which he had to adapt. Rival clans had larger numbers and fearsome warriors; neighbouring kingdoms had fortresses, strategic locations, and different weapons. Genghis Khan, however, learned his lessons well. He adopted techniques and technology from vanquished peoples, and he sought out useful craftsmen and scholars. He slaughtered the aristocrats of conquered lands to prevent uprisings, and he grouped soldiers together in a mix of nationalities to create a more cohesive army. Adapting to war in new lands resulted in technology and military tactics. He was as great an innovator as any, and he did it all on his own initiative from the unlikely position of an ordinary Medieval man.
 

His legacy is enormous. His empire bridged Asia and Europe, creating unprecedented amounts of trade. Mongol ideas of a religious tolerance and meritocracy may well have influenced the formation of the modern world. The Renaissance was somewhat inspired by Chinese art, as the Mongol Empire brought cultures closer together. His broad kingdom and the trading networks within it brought forth new technology, constituent parts coming together to fashion era-defining novelties such as the canon and the printing press.

Genghis Khan casts a long shadow over the centuries.

World history would surely have been very different if Genghis Khan had not lived his extraordinary life. However, before we laud him with awe-struck praise, we might well reflect on the pain and terror he rained upon countless people. His achievements all came with devastation and murder, and the modern world he helped create saw no less violence than the past. Some highly influential autocrats are rightful villains in our eyes; Hitler and Pol Pot generally do not receive praise. Yet they also were innovative and emerged from modest backgrounds, facts we avoid considering for too long lest we forget they were monstrous men. Others, such as Alexander the Great and Marcus Aurelius, are very rarely questioned about the violence and destruction that they sanctioned. In some circles, the latter is treated like an unimpeachable, stoical sage. Are such favourable assessments aided by the amnesia of time, which affects our judgement? Or perhaps it is just absurd to continue taking offence to crimes committed in antiquity? Were we victims of Genghis Khan's enterprise, might we wish to bear witness through the centuries to the crimes of a monster who destroyed our lives?  And does ingenuity or great achievement ever really mitigate murder?

These questions I cannot easily answer, and I have no convictions about how best to characterise Genghis Khan. However, I am certain about one thing after some research on the great Mongolian leader: things were better in the past. When you peruse the rich tapestry of bygone eras, you cannot help but be struck by the fact that people talked actually to each other. Unlike nowadays, where everybody has their head in their phone, you were able to have a conversation without being interrupted by a ping from the little glowing box in your pocket. No less astonishing is that children played outside. And in Genghis Khan's time, we all ate real food and didn't need pills to be happy. We didn't argue all the time, and you could say what you wanted without fear of someone getting offended.

Like and share if you agree and want to remind people what real life is. (I know which of you
will.)

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How to Be a Writer, Part 2, (a.k.a., The Life Unobserved)

Having read my recent post on how to be a writer, many of you have sent me messages asking for more details. This is a positive development. When you decide to become a writer, the first, natural step is to fret about how to become a writer. But we cannot stay at this stage forever; we must advance to the next step, where we obsessively inquire about the minutiae of a writer's habits. We ask successful writers an inane number of questions about very particular, and largely irrelevant, details concerning the writing process. You being here, at this more advanced stage, means you are getting closer to your dreams of being able to not only say you are a writer, but actually believe it and have those beliefs based in reality.

Any bog-standard writer can tell you the basics: get up at five a.m., meditate for an hour, write a sentence, have breakfast, re-write the sentence, masturbate out of boredom, go online for three hours and affirm you are a writer by watching videos, posting articles, and making comments. This is all simple, obvious stuff. I have been telling aspiring writers this for years. It finally occurred to me last week, after so many questions, that people in general cannot comprehend the most basic tenet of writing: the writing actually writes itself. (That and only write on a Mac. Everything else is heresy.) 

Allow me to give you an encouraging (yet disheartening) example. Back in 2018, I decided to try my hand at writing a film script. I sat down at my desk as usual and gazed at the screen. I would like to take credit for the script that emerged, but I must humbly admit that I was a mere conduit of a process borne out of necessity. The story flowed out of a series of deductions, much like Socrates guiding an interlocutor towards the truth via pure reason. Not sure how this works? Let me show you.

Your story needs a protagonist, right? Voilà! You have your main character. He's a man, because (duh!) I'm a man, and I'm writing this. But only half the population is male, so perhaps a female lead would also be good. To make life easy, they should have some sort of relationship. They could be friends or related, but let's make things easy and say they are in a relationship — an Eve for my Adam. I don't have children, so they can't have any children. Why not? Maybe that's a source of conflict. Of course! They are in a creative field like me and have been too focussed on their careers to have kids. But careers in creative fields are hard to find, so perhaps one of them had to settle for another career. The lack of children at thirty-five is not such a big deal in 2018, so I will have to make them a bit older. 

Now, where to set this? Well, for real commercial success, it will have to be in English. And set in the United States. Creative Americans, as we all know, only live in either Los Angeles or New York City. Nobody outside those city limits is intelligent enough to be a writer. L.A. is too sleazy, so we will go with New York. If they're New Yorkers, then they have to be somewhat neurotic, like every single resident of NYC. Neurotic New Yorkers are tremendously self-aware, so we will need to have a psychologist character, or, at very least, characters who are well-versed in psychology. It has to be psychology. It's the master narrative that explains everything. (I've been shouting this ironically at psychologists until I'm hoarse for years, but they stubbornly refuse to get offended, asking instead why I think that.) 

So, now we have a creative couple, struggling to have a child. This source of drama dampens the joyful, creative spirit I want in this film, and as I am a creative person and must insist that creativity is affirmed. We can work in some whimsical quirks, but perhaps another creative character might help. They will have to be young, because true creative spirit only resides with those who are coming of age. A girl. I'm not a girl, but inspired young people are all women nowadays. She's also quirky, and her journey must be a triumph for her creativity. It logically follows that she will act as a surrogate child to the couple. Her story will be hard to reconcile with the main story, but that is a plus, as we want to avoid anything like a conventional plot because my life is not a conventional plot and looking that far beyond myself is too much work. 

You might well be impressed by that little creative exercise, the ideas spawning from virtually nothing more than simple reasoning. However, that which is easily accessible to me is accessible to others. That same year, someone else beat me to it. Private Life is virtually what I had in mind, including the dour couple. They even cast Paul Giamatti, who I knew would lap up such a role, and some actress who looks likes she's had the same cold for twenty years. The film very cleverly includes black characters. If you aren't black, like me, it can be a struggle to write a black character. Private Life has black characters, but they don't have any lines, they're only in one scene, and we are given absolutely zero information on their relationship to the main characters. They are just there at the Thanksgiving dinner. Perhaps some white people in the States give each other black people acquaintances as presents?

Private Life is plot-shy and driven by vignettes, which is great, because you can indulge all the little ideas that you have. The emotional through line in the film is the desire to be a parent. The story ends with the couple waiting nervously for a woman who promises to give them her baby for them to adopt. The credits roll as they wait, and we sense that the mother will not show up, as our protagonists sit awkwardly in a midwestern diner. This ending differs from what I had in mind. In my story, the male lead consoles his wife with a speech about how a life of little moments and observations and mildly eccentric characters is its own reward. She replies "True. There is nothing else to live for but those moments when you are as bourgeois and self-absorbed as we are."

I hope you, fellow writer, take encouragement from this episode. It ended badly for my ambitions, but that need not be the case for you. I feel confident that your script about a couple living in New York and/or Los Angeles could get made. Just look at the recent Marriage Story. Let it write itself and shoot it off to production companies. Like a self-aware latecomer sneaking into party, slip your dime-a-dozen story in with all the others — an unobtrusive addition that nobody notices or cares much about. 

Me "enjoying" Private Life. 

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My name is Nigel Fairflower and I approve of this message.

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Now He Belongs to the Bleedin' Ages

Walking the streets of Dublin last night, I felt an emptiness about town. Though surrounded by people, I could not help feeling a lack of soul, an absence of some vital energy. It wasn't until I took a turn down one of the less crowded streets that it hit me. In the sudden, short-lived silence, on a faint, distant wind, I could have sworn I heard a ghostly voice calling someone a bollocks. I then remembered that it had been two weeks since Jimmy Nugent dramatically parted from this world. After being pursued for half an hour by an Garda Síochána that faithful night, James Carthage Nugent MEP drove his vehicle off the promenade at Bull Island, Dollymount, sinking into Dublin Bay upon impact with the water. The body of the legendary man has yet to be recovered.

We have witnessed nothing but strange days since he left us. The government have taken an enormously long time arranging a state funeral, the cost of which is estimated at €25 million, most of which has been spent on consultancy fees for public/private deal. A spokesperson for the government said that the arrangement will keep the large bill off the government's debt and also something vague and evasive about putting the contract up for tender. An Taoiseach Leo Varadkar said something pedantic and platitudinal that may have been an unprovoked sleight at working-class people. 

Much confusion and contradiction surrounds his death. The discrepancy between certain details of his death and the official account has already given rise to many questions and a handful of conspiracy theories on the internet. Why were the Gardaí chasing him? Where is his body? What actually happened that night? Some claim that this saintly man performed his final miracle — a vanishing act — beseeching help from the Virgin Mary at the end of the Bull Island promenade as his flight from the authorities reached a dead end. Others say the car chase was a myth and that he died from heart failure at the wheel, while taking a tourist on a circuitous journey from the airport to their city centre hotel via Dublin Bay.  

The site of Jimmy Nugent's last stand.

One of the more sinister claims suggests that the Gardaí murdered him. It has been rumoured that they saw him as a threat, a man who called for martial law every time a major crime was in the media. He was always a controversial figure, but never more so than the final year of his life. His election campaign for the European Parliament was fraught with daily controversies, mainly pertaining to any one of his many radical policies. The fliers and posters for his campaign were jammed full of small print, listing all the ambitious plans he wished to accomplish as an elected representative: Irexit; pro coal ("Coal is proven. Coal's your only man."); pro gun ownership; indiscriminately hacking off the top tier of every public organisation to combat corruption; nationalisation of the banks; conscription; pledge allegiance to the flag (which he clarified was not metonymy); a restrictive immigration policy; anti-vaccination; establishment of new capital on the Hill of Tara; highly restrictive clothing regulations; detention centres; a revision of the history curriculum in schools; an investigation into chemtrails; an annual day of observance for how shite things are and who is to blame; a labour camp for those players on the Republic of Ireland football team who fail to get results; a space programme to determine if the Earth is round or flat; Irish Sakoku; a seat in the Seanad Éireann for his dog; a directive for the media to report more frequently on the crimes of Travellers and immigrants.

The confusion about his death and the lack of a corpse has led some to believe he is still alive. Many of his followers refuse to believe he died. A man of his legendary caliber could have easily master-minded a cunning escape plan. He may have wanted to avoid answering questions to the ongoing tribunal into his finances and decide to fake his own death. Elaborate conspiracy theories tell stories of him fleeing to foreign lands. Cheating death like Rasputin, he rendezvoused with a Russian submarine and is now an honoured guest in the court of Vladimir Putin. Some claim he was spotted in Sydney, telling Asian people at the airport that Australia is full already. A photograph that emerged during the week supposedly placed him in the hermit nation of North Korea, apparently on an ideas exchange with Kim Jong Un. A more plausible theory claims he was picked up by local fishermen in Dublin Bay. Embarrassed by whole ordeal and still a fugitive of the law, he informed the captain that he was a resident of Lambay Island, and requested to be taken home. I think this last idea is the most compelling. With such a small population, the tiny island would be perfectly suited for Jimmy Nugent's dream of a closed, restrictive society.  

Is this Jimmy Nugent on the far right?

Having heard those words on the wind last night, half in a dream perhaps, I slowly resumed walking home, somewhat disconcerted. But soon I felt better and picked up the pace, as it occurred to me that he was not really gone. I cannot speak for the veracity of all the claims above, but I will tell you this much: he will never truly leave us. When you walk this city, you will find him everywhere. Walk down by Dublin port, and you will find the wreckage of the prototype giant radiator which fell out of the sky and landed where the Liffey meets the sea. Cross the Ha'penny Bridge and you will meet the beggars Jimmy would frequently scold for not having a job. Walk down Kildare Street and you will see his monument giving the finger to Dáil Éireann. Wander out to Clondalkin and you find ample evidence of the economic progress his closed economy brought. Pass Burger King and reminisce about the stand he made against the slow service. And when you walk by the GPO, look at the anxiety in the religious preachers faces as they fear that he will return to savagely remonstrate with them. 

Jimmy Nugent's 'Finger of the People', telling "all the muppets" to "fuck off."

I know, in some sense, he will forever be with us. He will be with us wherever men vent their belligerent opinions angrily in public; wherever the high blood-pressure of men produces thoughts free of content and abstract reasoning; wherever there are those who thirst for the freedom to express one's opinion without the oppressive toil that thinking long and hard forces upon people. You will find him in the pub, in the polling booth, in the comments section, on the bus having an argument with the driver. You will find him behind the wheel of a car that honks too often, as a caller on the Joe Duffy show; in a taxi making you wish the topic of the conversation would change. The enduring champion of those who cannot be sold by reasoning, or deterred by compassion or understanding, will live on. I say to the disgruntled people of this country: fear not, he will always be near. He will never leave us alone.

How to Be a Writer, a.k.a., "A Dangerous Passion"

"How did you become a writer?" nobody asked me the other day, when I needed an opener for this blog entry. As it was nobody, my advice fell on absent ears of course, but I will nevertheless impart once again the ancient knowledge I have acquired as a man of the pen. The first and most important step on your journey to becoming a writer is that you must believe you are a writer. Research from multiple surveys shows that 93% of people who when asked "Do you believe you are a writer?", and answered 'no' were not in fact writers. This demonstrates how imperative believing yourself to be a writer is if you wish to be a writer. If this initial step proves difficult, try saying you are a writer to everyone you meet, or read and share inspirational quotes about writing online. Depreciate yourself in a disingenuous fashion, blaming your character faults — such as laziness, refusal to engage with even basic numeracy or logic, forgetfulness, fits of rage, melancholy, and substance addiction — on the writerly aspect of your personality that ultimately defines you. If all else fails, you can always smoke a cigarette in an evocative, monochrome photo. 

Something like this.

Before you go lighting up that cigarette, however, you should know that true literary genius requires more than just believing you are a writer. Believing is a pre-requisite, but great writers are also creative, a skill that requires years of being a creative person. As a novice writer, you should try to develop your creativity by being creative. The real trick of course is to be creative. All the best writers in the pantheon of literary greats were creative, had been creative, were being creative, and had been being creative. For the aspiring writer, this primarily involves entering the confines of your mind and berating yourself for not being creative. It also involves valuing creativity as a master virtue, the well-spring of all humanity. Creativity is featured in all our myths regarding the origin of our universe. God created the world from nothing, yet you cannot create as much as a short story without help. How then can we go beyond this impasse? 

Fortunately, there is a loop hole: writers are allowed to find inspiration for their work. There are many ways of doing this, such as taking a walk in nature and watching people from a cafe terrace. Best to get comfortable with these kind of activities, as most of your time will comprise of finding inspiration. Any writer will tell you the difficulty in trying to write when you are not possessed with inspiration. If conventional methods of inspiring oneself fail, you may have to resort to more drastic measures, such as engaging in disturbing sexual activities or taking heroin and listen to More than a Feeling by Boston on loop for 24 hours. Having strong opinions and falling out with people regularly will give you the angst and anger to bring new stories to life. You may be concerned about the effect this will have on your mental health, but in the deadly game of writing you must embrace pain rather than shy away from it. Indeed, many writers recommend cultivating pain to help churn the creative cement mixer. Go to pain-cultivating group meetings, where you mostly talk about your pain and encourage others to develop a sturm und drang emotional life. It's mostly young men standing in the corners, despondent faces buried in a forlorn arms, but it works. 

I was going to put Munch's The Scream here, but I think this stock photo works better.  

One surefire way of finding inspiration is falling in love. You may make a fool of yourself and people may regard you a creep, but the more tragic and uncompromising the love the better. All the great love songs ride the fine line between innocent passion and obsessive psychosis. Romantic love is not the only avenue a writer can take, as there is also self-love. Love yourself, because doing art is loving yourself. (The opposite is not true, no matter what the pretentious amateurs say.) Sadly, loving oneself is not as easy. On the treacherous road of becoming a writer, one must confront their Jungian shadow and assimilate it. How one does this remains unclear. Apparently, it involves making a lot of deferential remarks about the power of mythology and keeping a dream diary. Sitting alone in a dark room aghast at your personality and existence seems to help too. 

If and when you have invested the many years required to face the demons lurking in your soul, and assuming you have survived the many fatal pitfalls on your journey, you may finally and deservedly call yourself a writer. You have permission to now start writing. Any further obstacles can be overcome by just trusting your (infallible) instincts. Write what you know, especially if what you know is topical and can be read over the course of a sun holiday. Make broad statements about the human condition without any regard for their veracity or applicability to any situation. You are the quotes now, and you should feel at liberty to tell yourself as such in the mirror every morning. Oh, and for the love of God, get the ending right. For example: if your protagonist is a young man at university, desperate to find an opportunity to masturbate surreptitiously, it should end with him running naked in wilderness, screaming wantonly (no matter what your dilettante writing partner thinks). 

What's that? Nobody reads anymore? Quick, everybody, start a podcast! Or run to Youtube and start up a channel. Video essays, gaming, a patronising video about an academic subject  — it doesn't matter. Run to Youtube before it is impenetrably saturated!