I never know how to start writing anymore. It's as if the creativity I once possessed has deserted me like the simile I forgot to put in the back half of this sentence. My ideas are fragments, truncated thoughts cut down by my lack of giving a shit.
I worry a lot: that my writing woes are indicative of deeper problems, that this transition is too forced, that meta-conversation about my writing doesn't magically improve it. This goes away if I just close my laptop. No more words staring back at me, no more thoughts I have to wrestle with. Problem solved.
There's the rub. I heard that if I persevere, eventually I'll get somewhere. But with all this perseverance, I keep walking past my problems, hoping that brushing things off will eventually make me happy.
"It's okay, man. You won't be fat forever and you're not that gross and I'm sure people find you charming regardless."
"It's okay, man. Don't worry about falling in love and having a family. It'll happen someday. You're not falling behind. So what if everyone you know is already in love and getting married and doesn't have to go to sleep alone every single God-damned night?"
"It's okay, man. By the time you graduate, you'll be sufficiently well-read. You'll know when the Enlightenment was and what Man Who Was Thursday is actually about, and your colleagues won't think you're a fraud."
"It's okay, man. No one knows how much of a fuck up you are."
I finally fall asleep, dream of nothing, and wake up tired. After a groan and a stretch, I look in the mirror and kid myself into thinking that I'm doing anything good and that life will get better and that this bullshit stream of consciousness counts as prose.
Word count - 299.
Hey, man. I think I know who you are. It's okay. I also know too well how you feel.
ReplyDeleteThere isn't any comfort except that we're all in this together. And maybe tomorrow the sun will shine.