Existing is a B***h

I wrote this out of frustration, I am the most sarcastic person I know.

Remembering the lost days when I could write literally all day without a single dry spell.  Ahh, nostalgia, you b***h.  It’s almost cruel that we can remember a time when we could write with un-ironic confidence in our words, or at the very least, free from the crippling worry that every word arrangement that you make is stupid (the specter more commonly known as self-editing and something that becomes increasingly harder to turn off as you get older… oh joy). 

               I can no longer perform the task that I once lovingly referred to as “word barf” I literally used to be able to just write and write and write with minimal urge to re-read what I’d just written.  It was so liberating and even if I created nothing but s**t, I was creating.  And I had ideas.  What has happened to me?  Here I am years later hanging on to the same handful of ideas that I’ve always had.  I’ve literally begun to bore myself. 

               Even as I write this I find myself reading and rereading each preceding paragraph to perfection before moving on to the next.  It’s revolting, why is it that it’s so damn hard to just move on?  Ok, now I might be getting a bit philosophical for most people’s taste, but you get the general point I’m trying to make.  Really this stems from the fact that adults do not like to make an a*s of themselves (and then of course do nothing but just that… life has an odd sense of humor).  Because we (and I use the universal “we” of adulthood very loosely here as I am but a mere 19 years old, practically fetal in the terms of adulthood) want to present ourselves well to the world… for whatever odd reason.  I like to think of it as a giant pissing contest that we all think we are winning (hint: we’re not). 

               What I’ve found is that I like people better who f**k up a lot.  They tend to be more happy go lucky, they tend to get more enjoyment out of life and tend to be the wisest people who have been through the most s**t.  Not to brag, but I feel like I’m moving towards fitting into that category.  Writing has always been an escape for me, I’ve survived many painful realities and writing has always been my drug of choice.  The problem with this is that you start writing for escapism, not caring if it’s s**t.  But then one day you realize it’s not s**t (completely).  And then you strive to get better, and the day that happens is the day all motivation to write is murdered.  Violently. 

               So now you’re sitting there with your magic carpet bag of tragic s**t to write about, lots of skill and zero motivation to proceed.  Fantastic.  You sit there staring down the universe with an expression on your face that reads “the f**k you want me to do with this?”  Meanwhile the universe is straight up ignoring you because it did its job, it cursed you with talent.  Suffer.  Thanks universe. 

               Now, remember the part about “self-editing” I’d say that is probably 5% of my loss of motivation.  The other 95% is my anxiety.  Ahh anxiety, my love.  You have consumed me so much that for a long time I literally thought there was a ghost who lived in my closet and watched my every move, just watching and judging (not to say there isn’t, I just don’t care if he judges me anymore). 

               I am a cocktail of self-doubt, skill, and drive to enter this pissing contest we call life.  The end concoction is something that nobody wants to drink but that I have to keep producing more and more of because ??? f**k me that’s why.  And the thing about that is that I’m starting to realize that’s ok.  I think that was my whole purpose in writing this.  And even though I’m basically beating a dead horse writing this (if you can list even one writer that you know who hasn’t ever complained about this s**t, then they are a liar and much better at masking the fact that they’re dead inside than I) but that makes for something than everyone can relate to really �" writer or not.  Really, we as people have this drive to do stuff and the minute you get good at it is when it becomes tedious.  Call it a flaw in the system or just a pain in the a*s, but I would be willing to bet cash money that everyone can relate to this in one way or another.   Isn’t life a sadistic little b*****d?  

Author's Note

I will take any and all criticism like a trooper, have at it.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

With the passage of time, we change. And writer's block? We all get it. With my artwork, I used to be able to spit out a painting every week or two, but now stare at the blank canvas for months. I churned out a lot of stories, too, but now they're as rare as a quadruple sneeze. You're young and have lots of miles in you, so try not to worry about surges and lulls in your creativity. I grinned when you wrote "Oh, joy..." it reminded me of Stimson J. Kat. And "pissing contest"--I haven't seen that used since I left the Navy. You're a good writer, Madison.

[Madison Juliana Alexander]

Thank you! And I know I still have far to go, I just was particularly frustrated one day and, ironically enough, out of writer's block came some good inspiration... go figure :p But thank you for sharing your thoughts on my writing, I'm glad that my phraseology made someone smile!

[SAYED THANGAL]

The story is a perfect personal reflection, I think. Sometimes the matters might have made you a bold lady. Keep writing.
All the best. Syed