Alexander Gordon Jahans
I keep telling myself I’m not a writer. I have written 41,000 words across 7 different documents, 6 of which are part of the same story but I’m not a writer. A writer has purpose, a message, morals, ethics. I keep telling myself I’m not a writer because I’m writing for myself. I’m writing to write. Write fantasies to keep me going. Writing as a form of therapy. Then why do I care about form and narrative? Why do I care that arcs are consistent? That character growth and turns make sense? Why do I fix typos? Why do I waste part of my mental capacity worrying about edits to make later?
Look, I’m an atheist, I don’t get confessionals. I have no good book to refer to for guidance, no priest to turn to for wisdom. I am a nerd and I have nerddom to guide me. When I left school I was so powerless and alone. I doubted I could ever have impact on the world or friendship because I was weak. I was - I had convinced myself - a monster. The people must not like me because they must know about the anger, they must know that I am different. Then I discovered the seventh Doctor and I discovered that this impish problematic loner became powerful and gained friends despite his shittiness because his smarts were useful because they took down monsters.
Except I have run from monsters. I’m not afraid when it’s my life and reputation on the line but I don’t stand alone anymore. I can’t go out to battle when those I care about might get targetted, are being targetted, when I know my every slightest mention of the enemy gets them so excited they start furiously masturbating. I can’t fight the monsters because I do more good running from them. And there’s something else.
I fucked up. I fucked up bad. I didn’t see it at the time and I didn’t see it when it blew up in my face months later but I fucked up and that guilt has been sinking slowly through my armour, slicing ever deeper and deeper into the core of who I am. That guilt has been poisoning me, hurting me more thoroughly than the Growth Hormone Deficiency. I have lived my whole life avoiding actions I deemed immoral and then - Then I did something that I now understand to be heinous.
I don’t have confessionals and I don’t have a justification I can lean on. I have no great “needs of the many” excuse here. I can’t claim I was fighting monsters. I fucked up and I hurt people and then in my arrogance that I deserved an explanation when I was met with the consequences of my actions, my enemy used my fuck up to hurt those people again. To hurt them worse than before. How very fucking wretched to cause more harm after you fucked up than in the initial execution of the fuck up.
So I tell myself I’m not writing when I am. I tell myself this will never see the light of day as my guilt writes savage verse against my enemy, against even the parts of me responsible for the fuck up. I tell myself this is shit and I will never publish this. Tell myself I’ll probably be dead before its finished. I tell myself that my sin is my own to bare and if I must write I should do it privately even as I find myself preparing for publication.
I don’t have a priest to turn to or as good book to seek for advice. I have nerddom and in the podcasts I love and the comics I have loved I now see the only advice I can possibly take for this situation. Sometimes you write something you shouldn’t, something that has consequences and causes problems for other people. Sometimes you fuck up and people get hurt but you just have to keep going and hope not to fuck up again because every soldier is going to be needed in this fight and we cannot afford to have a single Achilles in his tent.
My name is Alexander Gordon Jahans, I fucked up bad and I am sorry, I am a stupid and insensitive man but I am a writer again and you will see a proper story published soon. Hopefully this one will lay my demons to rest. I did not mean for any odf this bullshit to happen but I have to live with the consequences.