writing's the best. i hate it.

So, you’re a writer. Which is kind of a nothing, when you think about it. Or… an anything? Being a writer is overwhelming because, well -


It’s like, where do your ideas come from? Where does your sensibility come from? It comes from EVERYTHING, holy shit everything. Originates from a million disjointed pieces that you’re scared to think about all at once because of the muchness of the chaos. How are you supposed to file-cabinet everything that’s ever happened to you in such a way that it can be readily repurposed into something that someone else will understand and think: Yeah! Your head is so full, you have too many thoughts too many ideas to work with until -


It spills from you. Marbles all over the table. Words leaking from your hands. It’s your first draft! It feels so good it’s coital it’s flowing it’s -


Horrible, the puddle that comes out. Why did you waste so much time writing something that’s so bad? Something that makes no sense, something bloated with too many of the infinite ideas that congest your memory.


With careful fingers you re-situate the words into something of an order. You start to feel good again. There’s sense here. There’s potential here. But then -


You lose yourself in a state of just-writing for too long. You’re spending all of your time on the page scribbling, on the computer typing. Eating lots of crackers, probably. And/or chips. Minimal lights on. Minimal showers. Minimal human contact. Unable to recall the last time you were really “living.” In this state of just-writing it gets hard to remember why you started writing in the first place. You list further and further from the heat of the moment from that fiery tickle in your loins that made you want to begin this whole tortuous process. When you’re just-writing, the days fade into repetitive sterility because all you’re looking at every single day is the same ten or so marbles that you’ve been ordering and reordering with your stupid blistering fingers. From the thick-cut flesh of your experiences your imaginings the big warm mass of an entire lived life you’ve made -


A science classroom skeleton version of the human thing you were going for.


You hate it. You don’t want to play with these marbles anymore. These bones anymore. Whatever the analogy is. You’ve been looking at the same collection of words for so long that they’ve long lost their meaning and it’s like, will you ever live again? It’s like, will you ever eat food that’s not out of a bag? It’s like, what is sex/taste/the sun? Would stretching help? A walk? Eating the rest of the month-old half-pint of maybe-expired Ben & Jerry’s in your freezer? How are you supposed to write now that all of your too many ideas have evaporated?


So. You put on pants. Shoes. You leave your room.


You float into a nearby store and pick up a bunch of candles and smell them all in quick succession. Dizzy. Lost in the smells.


While you’re out, your friend asks you to go to a concert and you say Yes. Your friend says let’s split this bottle of sake first and you say Absolutely. You go to the concert you’re drunk the air is purple the bass is heavy you’re entangled in someone’s arms you kiss their face you -


Go to the grocery store. Pick through apples. Put a box of Pop-Tarts into your cart. Take them out. Put them back in.


Clean your home. Take a shower. Wash dishes. Take another shower because you had some ideas during the first shower that you didn’t write down, so maybe you can remember them if you return to the shower. Forget to write those down, too.


Return to your papers, to your screen, having breathed.


Your cleared brain - Of course you want to write this thing. Somewhere in the ether of candle-scented delusion you allowed yourself just enough reprieve to reconnect to why you wanted to write the thing. You don’t hate the thing, you actually kind of like the thing you like it enough to want to give it a piece of yourself.

You reach up behind your ribs and pinch off a piece of you and press it into what you’ve written. Blood circulating around the bones. Finally.


For as horrible as writing this thing is, not writing it would be -


Ha, that’s not even a thing.

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