One time some preposterous twat tried to tell me that when you write,
you always write for other people. It’s all for them. Like some kind
of altruistic nightmare where you dress up in a giant ape suit made of
itchy fake fur and dance on a stage so brainless plebs can throw banana
peels and clumps of shit at you. I didn’t bother to correct her. It’s
good that she went on thinking that, and it’s good that other writing
failures believe that too. The dodgy outer suburbs of our global
village are packed with filthy tenements full of unsuccessful creatives,
and they all believe they’re better, smarter, more profound, than
everyone else in the world. It’s my firm conviction that they should
stay there, smelling bad and growing old in filthy cluttered apartments,
still trying feebly to convince the world that they’re brilliant. As
the last dying light of self-assurance in their eyes flickers out, their
hubris will fade into equally devout cynicism and bitterness at how
nobody gets recognized. Night will come, and maybe before they end
they’ll end up on the ground floor of some office building, possibly not
as arrogant as they were before, but believing with all their hearts
that it’s the only way to have a decent life. And their hatred and
jealousy, companions throughout life, will remain when they tumble into
their shallow, cheap graves.
Great authors, great artists, great photographers all have one thing
in common. The best of them are generally humble people.
Self-confident, of course, and self-assured. But there’s no cheap jabs
there, no cold shoulders, no fawning ass-kissing for those one step up
on the ladder of success. Great creatives are always great, from the
time they’re obscure and on into their recognition, and by great, I mean
that there’s something about them, some vibe of wafting talent you
sense when you get near, some spark of greatness lurking about them.
Greatness has no room for pompousness, and arrogance is the first herald
of one’s miserable demise and imminent obscurity.
My name is Emma Yorke, and I’m here to make you uncomfortable.
