Archive for August, 2012

Just Write Through It – Exponential Sins

August 27, 2012

I’m going to admit to two things that I’ve been shamefully hiding from most of the world, or at the very least, downplaying drastically.

– I’ve been pretty depressed.

– I have not been writing.

In my head, both of those are shameful, and to be hidden. (I know, I know. But my head goes where it wills, no matter what I try to tell it. Stupid, stupid head.*) And both of them contribute to the other, and not in a straightforward algebraic way. Each issue increases the other exponentially.

I’ve written through my troubles before. The kind of sadness and anger that you face when you lose a loved one, or a loved car, or you hate your job with a fiery passion, or you’ve just been mugged… that’s a funk I can write through. Writing helps me process the pain, and the pain does sometimes even serve as inspiration and fodder, as romantics all agree. The myth of the tortured writer, and all that.

But this. This feeling, the feeling that nothing in the world is bearing down on you, at least no more than regular, and so if you feel this shitty, it MUST be your fault… that’s a hard feeling to write through.

We are young. We are strong. We’re not looking for where we belong. We’re not cool. We are free. And we’re running with blood on our knees.

Oh, man. Mika just came up in iTunes. Did you know it’s really hard to maintain a funk through some all of his songs? That’s the sign of a pretty awesome pop star, if you ask me.

Try it. Just try listening to this, and keeping a frown on your face.

Okay. Shit. Where was I?

So, I get down on myself. And I sink into the couch, and my WIP languishes as I re-watch Dr. Who, and the self-loathing mushrooms as I lose sight of myself as a writer, which makes me fear writing even more, which makes me even angrier at myself… **

I hate days like this. When it rai-rai-rains, when it rai-rai-rains. Baby, I hate days like –

Oh, god. Seriously, if you didn’t click the above video, just try it. Turn on some Mika, and see if you can keep a good, morose, whining rant going. Damn it, it’s hard. I may have just found my solution. I’m gonna get some earbuds and just listen to Mika, constantly. I might end up writing some cheery fucking bubble-gum romance shit, but I’ll be writing.

It’s nothing like a life we wanted, but you better move on, cuz I’m ready for more than this, whatever it is. Baby, I hate days like this. Caught in a track, I can’t get back, baby, I hate days like this.

Sure, it’s artificial. It’s a high that will soon burn off. If I use it properly, it doesn’t matter. I just need a kick; if the buzz gets me writing, then the credits start multiplying exponentially as well. I’m a writer again. And even if nothing else changes, what would you rather be: a tortured writer, or a depressed couch potato?

Which one of those choices gets you more action?

 

 

Obviously said in Judy Davis’ best mocking voice. Stupid, stupid rain. 

**Is there an artist out there who can draw me some self-loathing mushrooms? Because I’ve got a pretty clear image in my head, and it’s cracking me up.

Road Rage-ish

August 24, 2012

I’m not terribly prone to road rage. It’s rare that I honk in anger, or scream and curse, and I think I’ve only ever flipped someone off once (after some careful deliberation). I think what I get is better labelled as Road Tics.

In other words, I gesticulate and make odd noises, but there’s very little anger behind them, and… well, they’re not the standard angry gestures.

Last night I was driving home in some mild (by Bay Area standards) traffic. A hole opened up in the lane next to me; I began to move into it, just as someone two lanes over did the same. We both saw each other, and moved quickly back into our own lanes, and then, when I saw the hole was still there and I was still positioned, I took the space.

As they passed me moments later, I could see the passenger had turned to face me and was screaming something. He didn’t look happy. Sort of idly, without even meaning to, I raised my hand with my forefinger, middle finger, and thumb extended… kind of like a gun.

I have no earthly idea why I did that. I wasn’t angry; I think I was even giving him a slight smile, in a “Hey man, it’s cool, we both did the same thing and were in the right, and hey, we even both saw each other in time to avoid a collision, aren’t we great drivers” kind of way. Collegial, you know? Not menacing or creepy — calming. I don’t think it had the intended effect. They fell behind, and stayed there.

I do this all the time. A hand raised in exasperation starts rotating, and turns into this weird “smell my breath” motion. One time, I barked. Like, a lot. Like, I rolled my window down and was barking at the top of my lungs at this woman who was trying to cut in front of me, across a solid line, after I’d been stuck in unmoving gridlock for the past 58 minutes, moving less than a half a mile.

Okay, so that one might have had some rage behind it. But she sure didn’t know that; she just looked mildly annoyed, then massively confused. And sped away from me.

Now that I think about it, I think these tics are pretty excellent survival mechanisms. They keep people away, like bright colors and spikes on lizards, without escalating the rage of any of my fellow highway drones. If I had any control over them whatsoever, maybe I could use them in other areas of my life.

“I’m sorry, the grant deadline is when?” *patting my head, flaring my nostrils, and sticking my tongue out* “Oh, great, four weeks. I thought you said four hours.”

“You need a break?” *ripping open my shirt, biting my lip, and blinking rapidly* “Oh, we should go on a mini-break. Great idea! Paris, on you? Sweet.”

“I’m sorry… did you say marry?” *thumb to nose, fingers waggling madly, and off-key humming* “Oh, no, right, merry meet back to you.”

#notwriting

August 19, 2012

Oh, I had good intentions today. I woke up before seven, ready to jump into the blank page. But since I woke up so early, I decided there was time for a bath. Then, after the bath, I had to make tea. Then, I began my pre-writing ritual of clearing out my rss reader, and ‘warming up’ on my blog.

It is now almost nine. I have an appointment at 9:30. That means I spent over two hours on all the pre-writing crap, just to get to the warm-up stage. More upsetting is the fact that I seem to be doing this more and more. I think I just need to move the writing part up in the ritual. Before my eyes open, I should be warming up here, on the blog, letting the words flow while my mind is still muddy and doesn’t know what my fingers are doing. Hey, that’s my theory of exercise: get the running shoes on and be out the door before my brain knows what hit it.

I sabotage myself, I know. I always feel like I have the best intentions, but I’m pretty sure I’m fooling myself. If I had wanted to write today, I would have written. My subconscious intentions are crap, and they all want to bathe.

Right. I still have 35 minutes. I’m not going to let my subconscious get the best of me.

#amwriting