Do you ever get so fed up with Writers life stuff, you just want to punch yourself in the face?
I just want to lay down in my bed, barely listening to my crazy thoughts — without interruption. But alas, the neighbours demon dogs — are barking wildly once again.
‘Shut the fuck up!’ I’m pointlessly screaming this in my head to these dogs, which is clearly unhelpful since I’m not telepathic — nor do I speak canine. Maybe they have fireworks stuck up there arseholes, I’d get that — no level of pain tolerance would spare any from that kind of burn. But still, ‘shut the fuck up! Please and thank you’.
There are words breathing down my neck like fire dragons. In this dead of winter day, you would think that might feel kinda good — but it doesn’t. I want to push them all away, perhaps perfect (ooh alliteration!) the art of pushing hands — and slay these dragons without drawing blood. Today it’s either me or these words, here we are on the edge — both chest to chest, saying ‘What!’
Maybe, these words will swallow me whole then breathe me back to life. Maybe they can tell my story better than I. Maybe they will spare me from this nothingness feeling, what is that?
Is it a crisis of confidence when you think you should just put your pen down and go and get a ‘real job’, or is it an act of self sabotage?
Is it loneliness when you text your ex after swearing down that you never, ever would again, or is it an act of self betrayal?
What kind of fresh hell is this — when your heart and your mind are in a race to defeat you?
Maybe I just need to ask different questions to find better answers. Maybe I just need new rules that I can break. Maybe I just need a break.
2018 was an epic year for me, a universal themed story of personal tragedy, a wedding and two funerals. A heart punch, I’m still winded from. A cruel reminder that none of us can make the great escape and outrun any kind of heartbreak, it will turn up — dressed to devastate.
Honestly, I want to write — I want to be a better Writer. I think I’m just burnt out, I think I just need to catch my breath. Maybe, it’s the fear of trying and failing. Maybe, it’s the fear of flying. Maybe, I’ve just been taken over by fear. But perhaps, I just don’t feel like writing today.
This greyed out, icy London sky — looming over me in a threatening manner, lends itself so well to this Writers tale of woe. They say snow is on its way, hmm, there’s definitely something coming ‘in the air tonight.’
Welcome to my silly life.
29th January 2019, London