I want to write. I need to write. But I’m back, once again, in that place when I don’t really know what to write about.
I know stories of my youth will resonate with some readers and may even get a couple people interested in more from me, but I just don’t have it in me. I just don’t.
I’m half tempted to go back to some older posts on older blog(s) and do re-writes. At least it’s something.
Which is better than the nothing I’ve been coming up with lately.
If I had an excuse or two for not writing– life is busy, the kid doesn’t sleep much, work is hell, the dog shat on my keyboard– maybe then it wouldn’t be so bothersome to me, but really I have no excuses. I have the time. I have the desire, I really do. I just don’t seem to have the subject matter.
This is so me. Just add longer hair, no facial hair, big boobs. Click for source.
I just went to the bathroom moments ago. I sat on the toilet and told myself I need to come up with something… anything. I need to post something today, dammit. But what?
Then I noticed my hand shaking. Motherfuck, I hate that this is happening– growing older: I just got progressive or transgressive or something-essive bifocal glasses last week; my hands are shaking more noticeably every fucking day; I can’t stop eating the shit food no matter how hard I try, how often I promise (who?) I’ll do better.
I don’t want to write about any of this and here I am doing just that.
And I don’t want to write about NOT writing because it’s fucking bullshit.
I need to just do it.
I need to just write.
Who the fuck cares what it’s about?
Why can’t I at least throw some fucking fiction out there?
I don’t know. I don’t fucking know.
I’m kind of tired of the internet. I’m tired of having access to so much shit so quickly. I’m tired of reading about missing people. I’m tired of reading about horrendous fucking acts by adults to children.
I just want to shut my eyes to it all, but I can’t.
I can’t because then what?
Dear God, then what?
If I don’t go online, what the shit would I do all day long at work? There just isn’t enough work to do. This isn’t a complaint, nor is it me boasting. It’s just a fact. If I had lots of work to do, I would do it. Gladly. (Okay, maybe not so gladly as I’m sure I’d bitch up a storm to someone.)
But instead, I just lurk… on Facebook, on Twitter, on Reddit, on WordPress, on Blogger, on Message Boards. I click, click, click all day long. My eyes see some strange fucking things, yet none of it makes me want to write. Instead I just judge.
I mean, if I could at least judge here, then at least I’d be writing, but I just can’t do it. I can’t let the thoughts out of my head because I know me and I know… I KNOW… I will submerge myself into those thoughts and the majority of them are negative and for fucks sake, the world is full of enough negative bullshit.
But then why not do Fiction? Submerge myself into a character or two!
Brilliant. But… I just can’t keep it going. I don’t know what the fuck my problem is.
It’s like I’m just not interested in much of anything.
No point to this but hey at least I fucking “wrote”.