Another day, another treading-treacle cold. My walk so slow, thought patterns end without resolution and don't bother to ask what comes next. I dream strange, restless dreams of packing and repacking suitcases and wake up confused, sheets in a twirl at the foot of my bed. Aching to write, my fingers seem unable to produce meaning and prefer to push repeat on my music player.
It's amazing how difficult it is to write when not out of honesty. My head bursts with topics, with points to make, but when my heart is elsewhere, the words fall trite on the cutting-room floor of my literary endeavors. It is like with children, they see straight through your fabrications, and they form their relationships with you on the person you actually are. Perhaps that's what it is. The words see through my flimsy attempts at escape and wait for more honest attempts. At Anything. I am nothing if not grateful.
Such a gray day in Manhattan. Thankfully, somebody else has already said it, and better. Fuck that shit.
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In one of my many little moleskine notebooks I have started with the following advice from a site I never managed to find again:
ReplyDelete-Stop hiding who you really are. Who are you, what do you stand for?
-Start being intensely selfish. Get hungry for the things you really want, don't waste your time on the rest
-Be creative, stop following the rules
-Be creative, explore the edges, start scaring yourself
-Stop taking it all so damn seriously
-Take action, stop being busy. Don't keep digging if it is the wrong hole.
and, for you my dear,
-Start something. Don't put it off any longer. Just start, and the right path will get clearer as you go along.
So maybe you just need to start writing. Not the right thing, or the best thing, or the first chapter, or with the whole story ready, but just start?