Paper Money

"A writer never forgets the first time he accepted a few coins or a word of praise in exchange for a story. He will never forget the sweet poison of vanity in his blood, and the belief that, if he succeeds in not letting anyone discover his lack of talent, the dream of literature will provide him with a roof over his head, a hot meal at the end of the day, and what he covets most: his name printed on a miserable piece of paper that will surely outlive him. A writer is condemned to remember that moment, because from then on he is doomed and his soul has a price."

-opening paragraph from “The Angel’s Game” by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

What is the price of a soul? If we put our souls into everything we make, does it have a price on it? We write for convenience, our minds too much of a labyrinthine for us to not get lost in our thoughts. We write for convenience, our words drawing lines of a map, tracing the edges of our thoughts, the brim of our emotions, the hustle and bustle of the city we call our mind. A map that shifts and changes, like watching the evolution of a landscape from the dawn of creation, the wars that danced across it, the lives that flashed before it, the buildings that grew upon it.

We write because we can, we write because we can't. We write because of and in spite of our lack of words, our inability to imitate the beauty of God's lyrics. We write across faces, across hearts, across skies, across pixels, across pieces of paper. We consume thoughts, we vomit words.

We read, we criticize. A small child born out of wordlock, a soulchild of its wordparent, condemned to a corner in the room.

We buy words, but they never become our own. The soul of the writer scrawled across the pages are just a map of their world, like a map we trace with our fingers, but never arrive at. Like a photograph of a star, so near yet so far.

I write not knowing where I'd arrive. I simply write, like a drunk man stumbling along the sidewalk.

And when someone compliments me on my writing, it is like a drunk man being handed money to buy another intoxicating glassful.