aymczard - Post a comment
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| Jesus, do you ever get days when things just don't happen and the stuff you should be enjoying is like eating coal dust? I mean, it's not like I'm ever going to have any crisis in my life in the next few months about whether I'm a 'writer' or not. I'm probably not even going to have any angst over whether I'm good or not. I think I've reached a point where that doesn't matter any more. I'm just . . . fucked off right now. I'm sure other people in the world get this feeling a lot. It's like I'm staring at a half-finished picture, and knowing it's going to be amazing when it is finished, but also knowing that I've got a lot of trudging down a long, dusty, empty road before I get there. Or like driving home to see your parents. I mean, you're on the M6, sipping your coffee, and you know you're going to have a great time when you get there. But you also know that there's another 150 miles to go, and at least forty of them are on the M25, and you're sick of all the music you brought with you and even the frothy cappachino you've treated yourself to isn't doing anything to perk up you're spirits. You're just stuck in some motorway no-man's-land, staring at all that tarmac, watching as it fills your future to the point where nothing exists beyound it. And what happens if I finish it, and it's shit? Just an inordinatly long, rambling, self-indulgent piece of angsty tripe? It's entirely possible. It's just not much fun having to haul yourself so far for so long. Every time you fall down, you can't wait for someone to help you to your feet again, so you just have to pick yourself up and get on with it. I've run out of spices to put into the pot, so now all I have is plain bread and that's only interesting for a very, very short period of time. I'm tired and feel like I deserve a rest, but I can't just rest and relax at the service station. It's a place designed for going to the loo and getting something hot to eat, not somewhere you can renew yourself. I know that there's no one actually reading this, but I'm going to imagine that there's someone out there reading this who isn't a writer. They're probably in their early twenties and have a job and think they know everything because they've finally moved out from their parent's home. Anyway, to them I want to say: whatever you're thinking, fuck you. Just fuck you. You haven't got a fucking clue what it's like, so just fuck you. I'm an addict and there's a point where you stop getting high and start needing to do it. Maybe I'll fall in love with my muse again, but right now I'm eating ash. Of course I will. I guess other people may experience this as writer's block. I don't get that, of course, because I'm far too bloody-minded. I'm making product, not Art. That's what this whole exercise is about, after all. But you just stare at a blank screen, reach inside yourself to try and fill it, and realise that there's nothing left inside you and no way to make it be there. All you've got is just a whole bunch of nothing and you just want to go away and cry. I'd much rather be playing computer games, or even reading 9Tail. But no, I'm at my desk, trying to write. Even this rant hasn't made me feel fresh. Not even a little bit. I was hoping it would. The chance to just cut lose and write whatever came into my head might put some flavour back into the chewing gum, but no joy. Ho, hum. I'll just keep listening to Penny: 'Do you want to be a writer, or do you want to watch television? Is this show more important to you than becoming a writer? So why are you watching it instead of writing?' Way harsh when you already have a significently battered brain, but all the more damaging because it's true. Everyone has off days but has to work anyway, no matter who you are or what you're doing. It'll be better when I can play an instrument, because I'll be able to get hit that and get some instant satisfaction, like having a wank. There are times when I need that, but don't have the skill. Anyway, I'd better get back. I need to finish this fucking thing. I'm going to hold a fucking party when I do. It's going to be great. Fucking party. Yeah. Fuck you. Fuck. |
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