so you want to be a writer

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

— Bukowski


I stumbled upon this poem using, well, stumble, and it struck a cord. Those who know me know that I love to write. And this poem screams everything that I feel about writing. It's not something you do so much as something that does you. It comes from that place inside of you that controls your instincts and gut feelings and anything automatic about yourself. I was reading some of the comments people made about this. Doing so only reminded me of how many stupid people there are on the internet. Most said he was dumb. Anyone angered by this poem are exactly the people he speaks of. There are so many copies in the world. Nothing is original anymore. I think that is because people have stopped doing things for the love of doing it and began doing things for profit, to be liked, or for other material means. You know you are a true writer if you don't care who reads it, when they read it, where they read it, how they read it, if they like it, or if they hate it. The reason you put those words down on the paper is because there was something inside of you that flowed out in that form and you wrote it for the love of writing. This is something so many have forgotten, yet it applies to almost everything. Do things for the love of doing them.