White Noise

I hesitate to write about the anguish of writing because there is so much more important anguish in the world. Seriously, if we never publish a thing, it's not going to be the end of the universe; it won't even mean the collapse of our little universe. Dreams die hard, but their death is generally survivable.

Yet these doubts and fears are part of the process, and if I want to hold myself accountable on this journey, I suppose I need to acknowledge them. Of course, since I just had to rip out 2.5 pages, and I'm feeling kind of stuck, this may be the only writing I'm doing tonight, so there's that to account for too.

Sometimes the anxiety overwhelms the work. Sometimes the work overwhelms the anxiety. For me, the balancing act is constant, and the least upset to my state of mind can create a buzz that obscures the words. I am forever trying to find that inner peace that allows the ideas to rise through me and onto the page of their own accord. If I try to force it, it shows.

I'm not too thrilled with myself, either, when the writing doesn't go well. It tends to make me a little... snappish. Add to that ongoing and never-ending computer issues, and I often feel as if my head might explode. No matter how often I remind myself of the foolishness of getting upset over little things, I can never quite control my temper. And while the phrase "artistic temperament" has been used (by others) to excuse my outbursts, I don't want to be an arschloch to the people I care about in order to get creative. At this point, the trade-off is definitely NOT worth it.

Well... offer me a couple million for the book & movie rights, and then we'll see. :)

Light the Sky and Hold on Tight

Ever feel like setting things on fire?

Not literally, of course. I am not an arsonist. But figuratively dropping the match on the pile of tinderwood you've been dancing around for months, even years.

I broke a friendship awhile ago -- shattered it, actually -- for a whole bunch of reasons, not the least of which is that it was time to let it go. Yet I keep a sort of minimal tabs online of the narcissitic personality in question. Why? Beats the hell out of me. Maybe it's the veiled references he is still making to/about me. Maybe I just can't let go of my anger.

I almost responded today. I almost poured on the gasoline and got out my flamethrower. Some nasty, dark part of myself kept whispering, "Burn it all!"

I wrote this instead.