Why I Write
Deep within the glorious maze of lost time that the archives of Counter Currents represents, I recently found the tag, “Why We Write.” The essays under this umbrella, some of which originally appeared in The Occidental Quarterly, are a treat in no small part because they show a personal and human side to many authors who normally eschew touching on the personal for the sake of anonymity. It is also a lovely topic for the authors themselves, as it allows a certain egotistical indulgence that all self-described writers covet, openly or not. And with that being admitted, I will tackle the question myself.
The first thing I ever had published was a mere letter-of-the-day on Vdare — and a crummy one at that. I was absolutely elated when it happened, and even sent the link to my vaguely liberal, but mostly apolitical parents. In my eyes, I had struck back. It was the first fortnight of my freshman year in college and I had learned that we were not even called “freshman” because the word lacked gender-neutrality. My roommate was an insufferable “bisexual” Jew who boasted of having met President Obama and been active in the Occupy Wall Street movement (not a contradiction in his eyes; regardless, I suspect both were lies).
The sob story goes on and on, so I will cut to the chase. I decided the best way to strike back was to write. It was a way of telling myself that these people had no control over me, that even if it was pointless to argue in class, I could do better than just fuming in silence. So I kept writing, and I kept annoying editors, and I kept getting curt rejection letters. But by that summer vacation I got paid for something I wrote for the first time. By the end of that summer I had been paid multiple times, and was beginning to think quite highly of myself. I was a writer against time, a man among the ruins, etc. Liberals could tell me I was a stupid redneck, but I could just think to myself, “Oh yeah? How many articles have you been paid to write? I’m a regular right-wing Hunter S. Thompson.” It was immensely satisfying, and even my vaguely liberal, but mostly apolitical parents were impressed that I had found a way to turn time spent on my MacBook into money. Read more






