I’ve held back. I’ve held back because I don’t know what I’m doing. And once I do know what I’m doing then there’s no reason to do it anymore. This is how I feel. So I’ve learned to know what I’m doing by not knowing what I’m doing. And I can blame analytic philosophy for this. It’s the art of asking the right questions and seeking a counter-example then illustrating it. Like a pimple on my cock. Until I end up squeezing and irritating it until it forms a scabby pussball and puts it out of commission for a week. What a fool, for holding back and for squeezing. What a fool.
Holding back often means failing to say what I really mean. It also means hiding details for the sheer complexity of working them through. Details that stall otherwise good writing. And what is good writing? Saying what you really mean. That’s what makes good writing, any writing; academic, scientific, poetic, journalistic, biographic, science fiction, pornographic, erotic, a fucking letter to mom, is good only if one says what they really mean. No more, no less.
