I’m going to make this short, like really short, because why would you, after five years of following this blog, re-read the same shit over and over again?
How many times did I say I was on the threshold of change, and it all ended up the same? I don’t even want to know the answer. But honestly, am I improving my writing skills and building on my whimsical ideas?
Have I ever even written anything worth taking note of? What have I been writing all these years? And what the fuck have I been writing in the last year? I don’t know. I don’t want to know.
Seriously, mediocrity – the first word that popped into my head. It indicates self-criticism after falling prey to responsibility and blaming all the responsibilities evident because every day, they crash upon my head.
What else is there? What else am I complaining about? Ah yes, my stupidity. My inability to write efficiently. I need six hours to write 300 words sometimes because I can’t get the wording right or structure and grammar. Nothing ever flows right.
One would think that after four years of creative writing classes, I would at least master the craft of writing. But I am not articulate, never have been, and if I don’t have the capacity for books, I become even stupider than I already am, and words escape me.
I desperately need room to sort my head out and find stories to write about, dump my feelings in them – just to forget them. I told you before; writing is not my passion – it’s self-therapy. This is how I work, and no one gets it.
Oh, and where does this lead me to – selfishness? Of course, selfishness, because the responsibilities become so heavy that my mind crushes under the weight of duty and routine. And if that happens, I start to think of myself. (If your inner faculties cry for help, you will do something about it, right? When you take care of your well-being, you are not selfish, are you?)
There is currently no mental stimulation, just a lack of time. It’s my entire fault because I am not looking for a way to get out of this dilemma – too much responsibility and fear of letting go of this responsibility.
All I do is wait, and in between, I might have six hours to write 300 words – the only way to process emotion, filter them and remove them.
300 words against the 2008 antidepressant! It has been working great! I need the words to expand on paper.
It’s about time to talk less to people that trigger nothing but a void in my brain – a void that expands like a fucking disease…and I let them consume me almost entirely. Why?
Well, what else keeps me going? Once Francis told me some eloquent people write appalling stories, but if you have ideas for good stories, that’s all that matters.
I just remembered that my first short story was around 300 words long. It’s maybe the best short story I’ve ever written. (Read here)
