no point to this but at least it’s something? uh, yeah, not really.

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.

Nothing-to-write-home-about

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.

Silently.

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”.

sign of the times: #wah

I’m not even sure how many times I’ve come here today to write. Well, not really here so much as a Word document, but the point is that I want to write. I really, really do.

I’ve got a word I could use from the fine folks at Trifecta.

I’ve got up to 600 words I could conjure for the peeps at Yeah Write.

There’s the Daily Prompt thingie here on WordPress.

And MamaKat‘s writing prompts for Thursday.

But nothing is striking my fancy.

I’ve started and stopped and deleted and rewritten and backspaced so many words. But nothing is striking my fancy enough to hit that Publish button.

What’s the deal with that?

Life’s not miserable enough?

Seriously, I can bitch up a storm when the time arises, but if nothing’s “wrong” then I can’t seem to write.

So damn frustrating.

____________________________________________________

I didn’t hit the Publish button yesterday for that there above little bit of nothingness. Instead, I tried sitting down today and putting pen to paper.

 hand write

(actual image of what I hand wrote)

Maybe that would inspire me?

 

hand write close

(close up of beautiful handwriting that took me several times reading to decipher what the hell I actually wrote)

 

Problem is just what I thought: a) my handwriting is atrocious, b) my hand is so not used to using a pen anymore that it cramps only after a couple sentences and c) I just don’t know what to write about.

#wah

Stuck

I’ve spent a great portion of today trying to write. I’ve actually written quite a bit, but I’ve also deleted it all. Maybe I shouldn’t do that. Maybe I should keep the writing and go back to it. But the thing is, I’m trying to write about my past, unrelated to my Lovie, and it sucks.

I lived my life in the past for such a long time and I’ve come to terms with it all. I have no fucking desire to dredge it all back up again. Why should I? Because it may make for an interesting read? Because it may make someone connect with me? Fuck that. Fuck that!

Thing is, all this has made me realize something I’ve realized before–I haven’t lived my life to the fullest. It took me close to 30 years before I finally started Living life for me instead of everyone else. So those near-30 years? YAWN. Much like a bag of unsalted, unbuttered popcorn. WHO CARES?

The early stuff, the memories that pain me most, the memories that might make for the best stories? I’ve lived through it. I’ve worked through it. I’ve come to accept and appreciate it all because without those moments, those days, months and years… I wouldn’t be who I am today. I wouldn’t be where I am today.

Life would be very different without my past and I don’t want it different. I just want to live. Today. Not yesterday. TODAY.