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If I had a patron saint for my writing, I think it would be St. Mary of Egypt. Prior to her conversion, she lived on the street of Alexandria as a prostitute, but was so consumed by her overwhelming lust and passion that she often did not even accept money from her clients. She was completely devoured by her desire for love, for fulfillment, which led her, she says, to the depths of depravity.

We think of prostitutes as being on the bottom rungs of society. But I think it is writers, in fact, who pitch their tents beneath the patios of their houses. Prostitutes, to their credit, at least take wages for their services. Writers such as myself bare themselves, like St. Mary of Egypt, largely without charge.

We think of writing as a therapeutic exercise, an outlet with a low barrier to entry. But this kind of OnlyFans outlet can also take its toll. Each chapter, each post we write, is like an offer extended for sexual services. I love writing so much that I give myself away, day after day, to strangers on the internet "so consumed by my overwhelming lust and passion..." Week after week, month after month, year and after, I write. I have no idea who reads the words, clicks the posts. I'm seasoned in this kind of anonymous pro-bono licentiousness. 

For those who do have the misfortune of being on the receiving end of familiarity, I spam out new posts by text, "completely devoured by my desire for love, for fulfillment..." Some rightfully never respond, recognizing before others do that my need to be buoyed with encouragement or gratitude is never sated. Shameful behavior it is. Shameful, these writers are.

The kids can be anything they want, I tell my wife, just make sure they do not become like me. Writing is a way to deal with self-loathing, I think. We convince ourselves that the currency of words is leaving a legacy for our kids, or for friends or strangers or johns. We don't want to be forgotten, and these digital brand marks on the rumps of cattle are our desperate attempts not to be forgotten. And we are forgotten anyway. A generation goes, a generation comes, as the Prophet says. All streams run to the sea, but the sea is not full; All things are full of weariness; a man cannot utter it; the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing.

As for the rest of things, St. Mary after the Lord Christ brought her out of her shame sent her to purify her body and soul in the desert for seventeen years. And then she died. She intercedes as the patron of converts and chastity. My patron. I hope to join her in those years of barrenness, doing penance for my bare-all shameful expositions on this blog and elsewhere. 

The archives will remain here. Please enjoy. I owe the Lord that much, at least.

May God be glorified, now and forever. And please pray for this pitiable, shameless whore of words. Amen.