Mentally Choking

  So, a friend of mine stated to me that I needed to write.  Something I find myself unable to do.  I had a system, a way of creating, a formula that produced a product that I felt was extremely desirable.  But that system is offline.  My nightly habits of life are impossible, not if I want to earn actually funds to feed myself and to eventually move in with my girlfriend.  So instead I’ve been wallowing in my self depreciation, believing that the only true way to progress forward was to take two steps back…meaning, to quit my current job and return to my ungodly hours of writing.

  A quick side step from the topic, I wrote a book, this book is inadequate.  I honestly thought I was going to just become some sort of genius amateur writer, after closer examination I see my flaws.  I dissected my book, took the events and created a massive timeline which I coated my walls with.  Yes, there were bits and pieces that I found within it that felt like a gem or two, but digging for fragments doesn’t lead to a best seller(not that I know what does)but my guess is that I missed something along the way.  So day in and day out, I walk into my room and stare at it, then I go on with my day.  This several hundred page book swallowed my wall, and with each glance at it, I found myself choking.

  That’s when today took me by surprise, I guess I had one of those epiphany’s that people always speak about.  After complaining about my inability to write in my current way of life, my friend told me yesterday, “You gotta figure out how to work around it.  Gotta cut the world out when you can, then sneak back into reality for a bit.”  I put my whole story up, and in the face of those pages my inspiration seemed so meager, as if all the writing I could muster couldn’t scratch the surface.  Of course!  I couldn’t possible chew, let alone swallow such a massive undertaking.  The biggest endeavor I’ve tackled in my pursuit of writing was staring me in the face, all those hours of my life reduced to a timeline that made the paint on my wall disappear.  I took the steak that is my fantasy world and shoveled it into my mind, forcing it into my eyes day in and day out, every single piece.  My inner writer was turning blue in the face.  I’ve taken it down…stacked the pages, and now I’m prepared to put it aside for occasional viewing.

  So maybe I need to turn the table, sit someplace else while I digest.  I guess I’ll cut the world out and find a new way to create, separate myself from the formula that isn’t working.  To those reading this, I hope it’s helpful, if not please do laugh at my confusion.  Cause what’s the point in putting these words down if no one enjoys them.


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