Writing is hard. But I like to write. I MUST write, I suppose. I’ve said it to friends, but I think they don’t believe me. I think they think I’m just a bit off-kilter, enough for them not to question me. “Shhhhh… he’s a little weird but he’s nice, so just smile and don’t say anything to set him off!”
Just when I thought nobody was reading my blathering, I find out people ARE reading it. And I get writer’s block. I get a paralyzing fear that the next thing won’t be so good. Won’t be so fucking raw. Won’t capture that moment, that emotion, that fleeting feeling that I was able to capture last time.
In Stephen King’s “On Writing,” he says that the best thing you can do if you want to be a better writer is TO WRITE.
Robert Heinlein said the same thing, only he said it more elaborately (sorry, King, but you’re a hack compared to Heinlein):
1. You must write.
2. You must finish what you write.
3. You must refrain from rewriting, except to editorial order.
4. You must put the work on the market.
5. You must keep the work on the market until it is sold.
So I’m trying to write more often.
Thoughts intrude, however.
Right now, for example, I have a hairy beast in my mind. I don’t understand it, but it’s there. I also have Air Supply’s “Here I am” in my head… “Just when I thought I was over you, just when I thought I could stand on my own, oh, baby, those memories come crashing through, and I just can’t go on without, it’s just no good without, I just can’t go on without…. YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUU”
Come on, you all know it. And I’m not any less masculine for listening to Air Supply. (okay, maybe a little)
Then I wondered, briefly, if someone would see that this dissertation isn’t my normally random blatherings and bail on it early. I don’t get stats, ya see. I don’t. I just write. I just fucking write. I just motherfucking write.
Then I think, wow, I just re-strung my guitar. I’m reading a book on Atheism (living without God – (I wish I could live without that book but I’m committed to reading it), a book on Zen (awesome), a book on neuropsychology, a book on sleep study and neuroscience, and I’m kicking myself in the ass for not reading the three Star Wars book that have been on my desk for like 4 months now.
And I should really turn on the sprinklers.
That’s my random head. Electric head. Spasmodic head. It’s late and I should go to sleep head. Trippy head. Backwards head. Giving head. Alone. In a cage. On antibiotics.
See? What the fuck was that? I’ll tell you, but my patience for explaining things grows thin. It’s a reference to Men at Work and White Zombie and Radiohead, all in the same sentence. Why? I don’t know, man, I just write it, I don’t have to understand it. Sometimes the very act of writing is cathartic enough to sate the beast and calm the turmoil. Sometimes, though, I disappoint myself.
I don’t plan things. I don’t have a vision of what it ought to be. I don’t. I just write. What you see is what comes out, raw, unfiltered. Dead. In a cage. On antibiotics.