I wrote last night for the first time in months. I need to write more. I need to write more now so I dont feel like a directionless failure, which, by the way, is pretty much the tree from which my depression and anxiety stems.
I wrote about five thousands words which I am really happy with. And I need to write more, but I cant force it, no matter how hard I want to try. When I finish writing something, I need to have that feeling. That feeling of relief that courses through my heart and stomach and chest that says to me Ive just created something worth of myself.
It cant be rushed because if its rushed and poor, its not what I want. Its not my best, and I chastise myself for it. I thought maybe, when I decided to re-write most of my 2-year-old manuscript, that Id be able to use most of, if not some of the chapters I still had. I cant. I just tried it, and I cant. It doesnt fit, and so, I deleted it.
I cant keep it there, because as long as Im pretending like that is what belongs, it doesnt work. I need to rework a plot in my head that I know I can do better. This first one is what I need, this is the grounds and precedent that will determine if anyone wants to actually read anything that happens after it.
It doesnt matter if I think the greatest story I can come up with is taking place in the sequel Ive already begun, I cant let the first one be a steaming pile of shit just because yo, the second one is better. I thought maybe even doing some mass editing would help. Nope. Why would it? You can drape a five-thousand dollar suit over a pile of shit, but its still a pile of shit.
I just need to let it come to me as it does. I need to rid myself of all these fucking distractions that are plaguing me. I thought Id rest easily last night. It wasnt the case. I had these stress dreams and I woke up feeling so run down and shitty. Phone hasnt gone off all day, except for work.
Last night, when I was writing, I could taste her organic paw paw on my lips. I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand, and washed my mouth with the bottle of water I keep next to my bed. I didnt like that. It was a reminder shes gone.
I dont want to care that she has, but the fact that I went to such effort to clean my lips suggests that perhaps I do. Just not in the way most people would assume.
I wish I could talk about what I want, in the exact way I want it. But nobody can, can they? They, as I do, fear the persecution and abashment of revealing just what you desire. But if we did so more often, I think maybe wed get what we want.
Ive a hard time separating pity from my pride and my jealousy. Its so fucking annoying. Ill be jealous, or envious or anxious or depressed, and all Ill want in the world is for someone to walk in that door and wrap their arms around me and hold me.
But then when it does happen, the only thing Im thinking is that they must be pitting me. Rolling their eyes and sighing, because Im such a waste. Even when they tell me otherwise. My Pride, my Envy. My two weaknesses. Only because it all translates into anger, and then I feel bad, and its too late to apologize.
I keep waiting for things to go wrong. Im standing on the precipice of a decent I dont want to make. But I know its looming there in front of me, waiting for me to slip up. Im held back on the edge by strings attached to fewer and fewer people as I do, actually, become more and more alone.
I dont want to put all my stock in one person, or even two. Because as soon as they know that, like it or not they have a lot of power over me. I dont like it. Is equality and love something so hard to find?
Why cant I just have it, what I want, when I want it?
Its getting harder and harder.
Love and Kittens,
Brian
I wrote about five thousands words which I am really happy with. And I need to write more, but I cant force it, no matter how hard I want to try. When I finish writing something, I need to have that feeling. That feeling of relief that courses through my heart and stomach and chest that says to me Ive just created something worth of myself.
It cant be rushed because if its rushed and poor, its not what I want. Its not my best, and I chastise myself for it. I thought maybe, when I decided to re-write most of my 2-year-old manuscript, that Id be able to use most of, if not some of the chapters I still had. I cant. I just tried it, and I cant. It doesnt fit, and so, I deleted it.
I cant keep it there, because as long as Im pretending like that is what belongs, it doesnt work. I need to rework a plot in my head that I know I can do better. This first one is what I need, this is the grounds and precedent that will determine if anyone wants to actually read anything that happens after it.
It doesnt matter if I think the greatest story I can come up with is taking place in the sequel Ive already begun, I cant let the first one be a steaming pile of shit just because yo, the second one is better. I thought maybe even doing some mass editing would help. Nope. Why would it? You can drape a five-thousand dollar suit over a pile of shit, but its still a pile of shit.
I just need to let it come to me as it does. I need to rid myself of all these fucking distractions that are plaguing me. I thought Id rest easily last night. It wasnt the case. I had these stress dreams and I woke up feeling so run down and shitty. Phone hasnt gone off all day, except for work.
Last night, when I was writing, I could taste her organic paw paw on my lips. I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand, and washed my mouth with the bottle of water I keep next to my bed. I didnt like that. It was a reminder shes gone.
I dont want to care that she has, but the fact that I went to such effort to clean my lips suggests that perhaps I do. Just not in the way most people would assume.
I wish I could talk about what I want, in the exact way I want it. But nobody can, can they? They, as I do, fear the persecution and abashment of revealing just what you desire. But if we did so more often, I think maybe wed get what we want.
Ive a hard time separating pity from my pride and my jealousy. Its so fucking annoying. Ill be jealous, or envious or anxious or depressed, and all Ill want in the world is for someone to walk in that door and wrap their arms around me and hold me.
But then when it does happen, the only thing Im thinking is that they must be pitting me. Rolling their eyes and sighing, because Im such a waste. Even when they tell me otherwise. My Pride, my Envy. My two weaknesses. Only because it all translates into anger, and then I feel bad, and its too late to apologize.
I keep waiting for things to go wrong. Im standing on the precipice of a decent I dont want to make. But I know its looming there in front of me, waiting for me to slip up. Im held back on the edge by strings attached to fewer and fewer people as I do, actually, become more and more alone.
I dont want to put all my stock in one person, or even two. Because as soon as they know that, like it or not they have a lot of power over me. I dont like it. Is equality and love something so hard to find?
Why cant I just have it, what I want, when I want it?
Its getting harder and harder.
Love and Kittens,
Brian