I stopped writing for a bit. I don’t know, maybe it’s because I’ve been drinking more? I feel like my brain has been chewing on less intellectually. I’ll have a few banging entries that I’m really excited about and then there’s this total loss of motivation that follows, like, I can’t do that, and that can’t be me. Performance anxiety.
I think everyone deals with this at some point. Maybe creation is a habit of getting used to the lulls and the crescendos in output. A couple weeks ago I wanted to smoke a joint and when I went to make it I decided to use the dust that had been sitting at the bottom of my grinder for ages. Bad idea. A few days later I came down with a terrible sinus infection and cough. I spent a couple weeks battling it and didn’t bother trying to write. I think in the back of my mind I equated my blocked sinuses with a blocked artistic output. My sinuses are clear, but I’m still struggling to put something out.
It’s a tall order, trying to consistently write and consistently write well. The enormity of the venture expands when I consider that I want to turn this into a product that I can make a viable living from. This is a huge dream, and the weight of it is soul crushing because it feels impossible. The White Stripes have a song called Little Acorns, and I think about the opening a lot:
She told me that late one autumn day when she was at her lowest she watched a squirrel storing up nuts for the winter, one at a time he would take them to a the nest. And she thought, if that squirrel can take care of himself with a harsh winter coming on, so can I. Once I broke my problems into small pieces, I was able to carry them, just like those acorns, one at a time.
Whenever I think about something I am working on, I try to think less in terms of whether or not I’ve made a home run, and more in terms of if what I am putting out is showing some level of optimization. Those tiny tendrils of success dribbling from a giant meat sack of an attempt keep me going. I don’t know if this is dream worthy writing, but the fact that I showed up is a plus. I also try to find meaning embedded in my distressed rambling. It makes me feel like my labor bears fruit, albeit tiny, possibly poisonous ones?
Regardless, I’m going to keep showing up and hammering away at this until something starts to take shape. I feel like there are going to be a lot of restless moments where I doubt myself. I’m definitely not going to be Shakespeare, I’m trying to make the most of what’s available to me. And honestly I’m fucking sick of working a 9 to 5 and getting squashed for showing up late. If putting this out helps me build a bridge to a new life, then I’m all for it.
a soft death 