In this post Sarah channels her best beat poet self to bring us into the depths of her writer’s block and how she breaks through. Get some strong coffee, curl up in your favorite spot, and settle in for a mind-blowing read.
Horrific events everyday. Horrific events today even. It doesn’t even matter what day it is anymore.
We are hanging together by threads. This ginormous, disgusting, all consuming tapestry of a species is clinging together by sinew. Aching to love each other while shouting into each other’s faces. Spraying venom into each other’s eyes and mouths. Regurgitating processed fear. Walking, talking, posting, posting posting posting, and “liking” advertisements, we created, for the American dream.
The most base human reactions. Without thought for the future. Not even with thought for the immediate future. I’m not even talking about 7 generations. I’m talking about no generation, me generation, me, mine, me, me, and mine. Righteous in our OPINIONS, running fucking rampant. Goddamn humans, so frail minded. So BASE.
Yeah yeah yeah, it’s hard to write when you are actively disassociating from this shitty shitty world. It’s difficult to “find time” for your art. I know. Between the carpool to soccer and this afternoon’s deposition and the double shift at the crap burger cafe and the 24 hour news assault, who can find the time?
I have none of these.
I’ve got nothing but time to write.
Recently I’ve had so much spare time too write, it is obscene. It’s not hard for me to find the time because,
Here’s what, citizens of the internets:
I’m not writing.
I have “valid” excuses.
Chronic nerve pain, whackadoo phekking pharmaceuticals, blah blah blah, mental probs, yadda yadda. Bunch of hooey, when you get right down to it.
[For real tho guys chronic pain is a multifaceted nightmare scape of self destruction. It is the actual physical and mental breaking down of a person. This asshole, chronic nerve pain, the bitch, will be FOR SURE the thing that will force yourself to get to know your OWN damn self. It’s wicked guys I mean it. I would wish on my worst enemy but I can’t now because I’ve had/have it and I know in a very real way,
I would not wish it on anyone.
Sheesh, it’s bad. It’s a bad af mf, imho. ]
I used to actively write.
I wrote even when depression dropped in.
At the apex of anxiety, I’ve taken online workshops. Created worlds reflective of my state. Angry neighborhoods with confusion lurking around every corner.
Smut and easy to prepare recipes. Poetry and instruction.
The people though. The other writers.
Reading and critiquing. Their abject lunacy for “wanting to be a writer”, warm validation for my own addled dream.
Workshopping writing with writers face to face is so so so immensely intricate and frankly a fucking pleasure.
click click click click
constructive criticism careens
narrow miss of familiar themes
writing rich and unscathed*
In addition to forcing my shitty hermit weirdo self to engage with fellow writers/humans(tbh); I seem to require that kick in the booty to engage with my art.
Workshops and classes satisfy my base line need for motivation. Too much respect for writers (student, or “writer”) to miss deadlines no matter how inconsequential it may be.
I have written. I have to again.
To write it is to writhe in pain
To sing it is to writhe in joy
The point is, we need to write if we write. Therefore we should just write goddamnit.
Elevate the mundane to poetry. Take our opinions and shake them until they bust up out of the bottle. Make our voices ring and have every word mean a different thing, depending on the day, the minute, the moment. Watch and record. Watch and re enact. Watch and raise up.
Accountability is my crutch. Someone to read. One pair of eyes moving over the rapid fire thought and fear. Someone to tell me it’s bad or good or moving or shit.
I asked a writer one time how to be a writer and they told me that I should write and write everyday.
That’s that, guys.