Because where else could I begin?
Nietzsche has been an immense influence on me since I first read him at the ripe old age of twenty-one. It’s only fitting to begin this venture with an homage to the man that reshaped the trajectory of my life.
I did not begin with that quote merely because Nietzsche is my exemplar – though he is. Nor just because Thus Spake Zarathustra changed my life – though it did. I began with it because I want to talk about aphorisms: their virtues and why I will use them.
In fewer than fifty words, Nietzsche defends the form – and lays the foundation for mine.
But first, a note on what I mean by creative writing.
Not the distinction between fiction and nonfiction. Not genre. Not MFA pretensions. I mean writing as creation. Writing as offering. An authentic act of the self – a mark made with the will to say, “This is who I am. This is what I believe. Here is my blood - my very essence.” Any form may serve: a manifesto, a poem, a novel, a line.
This is not a rejection of utilitarian writing. I trade in those forms. I edit, ghost, and craft for others. That is writing as labor. Writing for a will apart from my own. But the writing I am speaking of here is writing as sacrifice – the kind that takes something from you.
Uncreative writing is inevitable. Emails. Memos. Threads. These burdens must be shouldered in twenty-first century life. They can be immensely valuable for your creative work. Contrast often inspires and reveals beauty. Let uncreative writing be tests of those mechanics and skills used in creative writing. Let them be whetstones.
Now, back to the path Zarathustra set us on.
To "write in blood" is to pour your very essence into the words. Nietzsche exemplified this. His writings were expressions of his will – of his revolt against meaning inherited, and his creation of meaning chosen.
He could write conventionally. When it suited him, he did – one must only look as far as On the Genealogy of Morality to find a work structured and presented in the contemporary form of philosophical treatises of 19th century Europe. That work was a treatment of history and the failures of established systems of meaning. It was a critique, a destruction of existing values. His intent required a more conventional format to buttress his other works, and so he adopted one. But his words still burned with his will. And when it came to the pinnacle of his creations, Thus Spake Zarathustra, he turned to aphorism.
Creative writing should tax the body, mind, and spirit. You should emerge flushed, hot, spent, destroyed. Like great sex.
When it is true – when it is yours – your soul leaks into the ink. Or the keys. Traces of the author exist in every line of a creative work. Your will becomes legible, even if the reader cannot make it out. That necessarily makes it foreign to anyone else who reads it.
My spiritual DNA runs through every line I write. My view, values, and voice are inseparable from my words because they are an extension of my will. There will be likeminded thinkers, sympathizers, admirers – “road companions,” as Nietzsche would put it. But they are reading an imperfect translation of my words.
My blood is not your blood.
But my blood can fire your blood – stir it to spill in your own creations. That is the role Nietzsche played for me.
And this is why aphorisms matter.
To fire the blood is not easy. Many can imitate shallowly: they may adopt party lines, borrow from pop culture, or accept whatever values were thrust upon them at birth. They may have a surface level appreciation for a work of art – a film, a painting, a piece of music, a novel – they may even identify with its themes. They confuse reference with creation.
To activate the creative engine of another through art (read: creative writing) is to move their spirit with something intrinsically foreign to it:
My words are not your words. My blood is not your blood.
But my work may spark your own will and reverberate through your works. My words may still ring in the throats of others, just as Nietzsche’s voice echoes in mine.
For this, the aphorism is necessary. It does not unfold meekly. It demands labor. It forces you to interrogate the words you read. It lingers behind your eyes. It crawls into your sleep. It stays with you, and to truly understand it you must live with it. You must wrestle with it. Bruise from it. Bleed for it. Then you learn it.
Then, perhaps, you can recite it by heart – does the heart have something to do with blood? I forget.
I am not Nietzsche. I will not pretend that I am.
But I have a view.
I assign value.
I have a voice.
I have a will.
He did not write frivolously.
Nor shall I.
