...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.
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