This is something I don’t get about me: why is it when I know I want to do something that involves writing that I keep putting it off until I decide I never wanted to do it in the first place? Why is it that procrastination always seems the best way to get everything done, when the reality is you never do a damn thing but think about what you should have done?
I have a love-hate relationship with writing. I love telling stories. I’m not going to win any major awards, but I can spin the yarn much better than some. I’m great at world building; I have people tell me all the time that I can create a background that is rich and believable. With all that going for me, I should have published a long, long time ago.
And yet, I find it nearly impossible to pull the trigger when it comes to getting anything done. This blog is a perfect example. I was going to use it to record my thoughts and ideas, and I’m pretty much done jack shit with it over the last month. Why? I can’t say. Could be I’m busy with other things. Could be I’m just bored with the idea of telling people what’s on my mind and never hearing anything in return. Or, it could be, I can’t get off my ass long enough to dash away 900 words.
I get into one particular mode: I rush into something with great enthusiasm and start cranking out words like no one’s business, and the . . . I stop. Not slow down: I stop. It’s like I can’t bring myself to open up the file and get back into the work. To me, it’s as if it never existed.
I have the story all laid out in my head; I know the characters, I know what’s going to happen to them. I know the start, middle and end.
But I can never.tell.anyone.about . . . it.
At this point I’m resigned to the idea that I will never do anything worth a damn. I’ve been asked to do three things–a review and contribute to a couple of collections–and damned if I can get started on anything. I’ve had a novel sitting on my computer, in various forms, for 20 years, and I can’t get past one little part that will allow me to wrap the who thing up. I have an idea for another novel–something that would exist in the paranormal erotic horror genre–I’ve got the characters and the plot maps out, and it seem more likely that fucker will sit gestating on my system until the day I die rather than ever see the light of day.
Why, why, why? What is it that make my life so?
Swear to Gawd, if I could make Writer’s Block a living, breathing creature with emotions and form, I’d hunt it down and beat its ass with a nail-studded baseball bat. I know writers are suppose to be tortured beings, but this shit is enough.
Times like this I wish I was back in the “facility” grooving on anti-depressants and getting my ass focused.