...Which is why I'm in such a delicate conundrum."
Did ya ever have writers block? Did ya ever stare at blank screen and watch the cursor mock you with every one of its devilish, condescending blinks? You-are-a-terrible-writer-that-won’t-amount-to-anything-ever! Also-I-fucked-your-mom-last-night.
I can’t believe you said that, cursor! Dorothy Mantooth is a saint! And, more to the point, so is my mom!
Bitch-ass cursors aside, wanting to write and not having anything to write about totally sucks. I’ve been trying to come up with various blog posts for about three weeks now, but they haven’t gone anywhere interesting. So, what’s a blogger to do when the deadline is a week past? Panic and run around the house with my arms flailing wildly? It involves me knocking something over or smashing into various pointy objects, eventually ending up with a trip to the emergency room. That’s not very productive, so no, I'd better not.
I think my main issue is stemming from my feeble attempts at fiction writing. I’ve got a story that I think is pretty flushed out, maybe 75% but when actually starting to write the prose, I get stuck almost immediately. I guess my problem is merging my... whatever this thing that I do is style with a professional descriptive narrative. I know I need to keep at it, keep writing until I figure it out, but as a person that usually writes too much, writing slowly and searching for the right words and phrases and struggling for something to sound the way I want to it is, well, it’s annoying as fuck!
I’m really bad at following through with things until the end. I kind of run out of steam about 3/4 of the way there and just sort of stop. There’s some sort of task tank inside my chest that’s mis-marked and runs dry before the job is done. Maybe I just don’t manage it well enough and use up too much energy at the beginning thinking about it and getting psyched and convincing myself it’s worth getting off the couch for. Whatever the reason is, I’m really trying to stop half-assing my way through life. It’s not easy. You know what IS easy? Nothing. That’s REALLY easy. Sitting around in a messy house with bored kids and fat dogs. I don’t want to waste my life though, and that’s exactly what I've been doing.
I have gotten a little better. School's back in session and there was a day last week when I really didn’t want to go, but I did anyway, and it felt good, like I’d accomplished something. Hell, the fact that I’m in school at all is a step in the right direction, isn’t it? I’d like to think so, because college is not easy. Well, the stuff that I’m doing is easy, but getting all the work done on time is difficult. I did get all B’s last semester, so that’s something.
I need to take little steps when all I want to do is long jump Olympic style. I need to be patient and gentle and calm with myself, and cradle my fragile, broken inner-self like I would a singed kitten pulled from a fire, when all I want to do is whip that racehorse until it runs so fast we’re only a blur past the finish line (I do not condone whipping racehorses, or any animals for that matter, it was just a metaphor, duh!).
My point is, I’m inpatient for my life to start, but I keep re-breaking my brain-bones by trying to use them before they’ve healed, making my recovery twice as long and three times as painful.
Wow, I’ve made myself feel better. Oh, sweet blog, is there nothing you can’t do?
‘Yeah, a whole bunch of shit actually. First and foremost is achieving sentience. Damn.’
Sorry, blog. Didn’t mean to bring you down.