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I've been horrible about writing on my livejournal. Once upon a time I had daily updates, a lively forum going on, a general wealth of ideals and creativity. Then...then stuff happened. It really started when I started working jobs that didn't really allow me easy access to the internet and hardly use a word processor at Salty except to do the menus. When I come home at 7pm from work, after almost an hour dealing with muni trains, cranky people and the general cloud of misery that is the commute home, I don't feel like writing. I don't feel like sharing. Half the time I feel that anything I could possibly write would be pure and utter crap. Sometimes, though, as I'm drifting off to sleep I come up with lucid ideas, like Maggie and the May Flies, and I can see these ideas floating in my head like butterflies, like chunks of words that I can touch and hold. I have about as much idea as to put them on paper as I do as drawing them. I have a horrible block.

I think I am in mourning. I went through a lot to get to New College, I went through a lot when I was in the classes. Sometimes I can still feel the amazing emotional impact that Felicia had on me, as I sat there, fighting back and trying to figure out what she wanted from me and how to give it to her, how to meet the expectations that she saw in me and being petrified that I wasn't going to be able to meet them. And then everything fell apart. My happy little plan dissolved and I was left confused and rattled. I have been avoiding writing because I am hurt by what happened. Of course, this is the perfect time for me to write but I'm also filled with a feeling of horrible self doubt. The Grad School I got into was the Grad School that fell apart. What does this say about me as a writer and a student? What does it say about the school? Little angry imps of self doubt, fear, semblences of everybody who's cocked their head and gave me that look when I say I am a writer...yeah...those little angry imps all have pick axes and hacksaws and are currently having a happy little time at my brain. It's a right on fiesta going on and I'm waiting, hoping, that the cops are going to be called.

There's a lot going on. There's a lot that I'm chosing not to share with you, or with most people. There's a lot I'm working on and things I want to share and things I want to write about and I guess I have to stop being afraid of writing shitty firsts drafts. My problem is that, even with shitty first draft, I want someone to tell me about how my story is because I need to know if it's worth it to continue. But....there have been some really, REALLY shitty firsts drafts....

Sometimes I wish I could be content with a wonderfully quiet life. There are so many GOOD things about having a quiet life. Quiet doesn't mean boring. Quiet means you're happy in your home, with your SO, with your job, with your plans. I'm happy with my immediate area, I'm happy with my hunk-a-hunk-a-welding love, I'm happy with the choices I've made. But I'm not content. I'm not at my full potential yet. And it's my own fear that has been holding me back.

Time to break out my own pick ax and take it to my own mental block.

This bitch's coming DOWN.
 
 
 
 
 
 
Having a quiet life is never conducive to creativity. Let's go, like, rob banks and stuff.
Nice Anne Lamott reference--it's so true.

Mourn as much as you like, but keep formulating new plans in the back of your mind so you can recognize the next opportunity--we never want to lose sight of the good things, do we? :)