Great writers, who are known to be the pillars of this adored but left out profession are all gone. Though there are some who are still standing, I think the prospect of being immortalized in the cult following of the literary world is one to die for. Look at David Foster Wallace, for example. His untimely and self-imposed time out from this life only made Jonathan Franzen look bad. Not that Franzen sucks at making worlds out of paper and ink (he’s one of my favourite) but DFW’s demise only made readers want to know more. It’s like there’s a vacuum of necessity that pulls reader to the dead authors. The lost are celebrated in more grandeur and regard than those who are yet to write their best works.
Ian Flowers, a respected tattoo artist in the U.K. said that he still hasn’t found his best work yet. Maybe, he never will. Another good point. Maybe it’s not death that truly gives way to the best works in the eyes of the author or artist. Though, what makes something a genuine success or a hit? Maybe there are more than a few classification or unit of measure. You just have to churn out more pages if you still haven’t found it yet. It’s always a good practice to outdo yourself every time. A scarcity of pats on the back is something that every creator must live with. It is in the presence of mundane and undeserved praise that makes mediocre work and ballooning egos.
This fascination with people who left a great deal of an impression in literature maybe comes from a series of unresolved conflicts. The lost always make a great topic. You can almost always fit it in everything you say, think or create. I’m afraid I am part of the “lost generation” as coined by John J. Hypocrite. I am part of an era that loses delight in hard work – though I think, I have a problem with it. I’ve forgotten how it is to work for something I wanted. It has taken too long to be reminded of the more important things. Work felt like it stemmed from need and not from the desire of a better day. As I am writing this now, there is a gap in what I want to put in and what I need to say. Help. I am lost.
I am just rambling.
J.J. Hypocrite is long gone, too. His last peek was into the barrel of his own gun. It is far from over. I haven’t completed my hard work yet. It is not yet time to collect my social security nor cash in my retirement pay. Doomed generation, that was Hypocrite’s exact words. I got too stuck on the less precise word “lost.” I’ve just punched in.