…or how I stopped worrying and learned to just write things.

So, I’ve had this blog for a few months.  I’ve done a lot better with utilizing it then I normally do with such services, but I’ve still had a problem with writer’s block and and an occasional moment of suffering the crippling fear that I will eat my foot the moment I open my stupid mouth.

Which isn’t to say that I don’t try to produce something.  For every post you’ve seen, I’ve started two more.  The problem is that I hit some point that I’m not really satisfied with whatever it is and then I just don’t seem to be able to craft the words into something salvageable.

I’ve definitely realized that there is a reason writers have a reputation as alcoholics; by the third or fifth time I got stuck?  I wanted to attack my mental pipe’s blockage with some Russian Draino, and let everything else take care of itself.

Pictured: holistic remedies for writer’s block and having a functioning liver.

Rationality prevailed.

So I’m trying some other things.  I might spit some blogs off by topic so I have less of a self-induced mental hang up of straying off topic when I never established one in the first damn place…and if that sounded like self-parody sarcasm, that’s because it was.  I know most of these mental blocks are my own creation; now I just need to figure out how to attack them with a mallet and break this shit up.

Some of it is also just being worn out.  I have a lot of friends who have had lives that are far worse then mine, so reflecting on the negative always makes me irritated with myself.  I end up feeling ungrateful and whiny.  Still, a rapid series of WTF has just made my emotional stability more theoretical as of late.

A woman who I sealed an oath of kinship over blood and who credited me with saving her life?  Won’t speak to me, and I’m not even 100% sure of why.  A woman who said she loved me?  Was abandoned by her, and called a hypocrite due to her own weakness.  Having to temporarily sacrifice my religious community to keep the peace.  Trying to do the right thing, and being made into a scapegoat.   A bunch of other stuff that I’m really just tired of thinking about, but I end up having to do so because it’s still relevant?  Because there are still lessons to be learned and understanding to cultivate?

Check.  Check.  Motherfuggin check.  It’s not the worst sort of thing that’s ever happened to a human being….but it can weigh you down.  I’ve been trying to push through….and it works more often then not. The problem is that it only works in the short term of getting through the day without focusing on the bad.

When it comes to self-reflection?  That’s when all I wanna do is just type incoherent obscenities for a few hours, occasionally blankly staring at the screen.  Meh.  I’d like to be more productive then that.

Take angle.  Move forward.  Fall down seven times?  Stand up eight.  This isn’t the worst I’ve ever handled, and I’m stronger then I’ve ever been before.  Fuck it.  Let’s write shit.  I’ll stick some shit in a centrifuge and let the bastard spin.

One thought on “…or how I stopped worrying and learned to just write things.

  1. […] of how career writers become alcoholics, and this is a concept I truly understand now.  I’ve talked before about how I felt I understood this, but there are some fundamental differences.  Back then, I just […]

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