Writer's Block 2: The pain and agony

 Ugh, the pain and agony. Everything sucks and my hands don't work and I refuse- I REFUSE- to do what I need to do. This, this, this fucking nonsense, this unrewarding chunk of writing. And guess what? Looked back at what it was before it is and man oh man does that suck. Sucks less, but sucks still. Not bad writing, just not a compelling introduction. You know how I could fix that? Put us in the scenario of the Prologue and not keep us at a distance. Makes sense that way anyways. Toss the guy in the moment, let him breathe in it, see it for what it is. This skull-speak I do doesn't work in the third anyways. The third is what this other novel will be in. Distant wavy third-burst. But this is First. Through the lens, in the skin, around the flesh. Right in the fucking skull, man. So yeah, I'm pissed and I'm going to be petty and let it get to me until I go to bed and then tomorrow I'm just gonna fucking push through these chapters. Hit the mid-point and I'm in a block of a lifetime. A full mother-fucking week of clogged up fingers and arteries. Like a fat guy at Culver's. I'm ready for my coronary, Mister Smith. 

Fuck this fuck that I hate fucking writing I'm sick of fucking writing this nonsense. I can't even muster up a God-forsaken email to my digital penpal. Can you believe that? How stupid it feels to be INCAPABLE and UNWILLING to write and email to someone you like emailing? Dear, Liv, uh, I, I, uh, sorry it's been, I've been, uh, fuck, fuck, fuck, saved to drafts, forget all about it. Little writer boy, why not give up? Why not let the creativity and spirit you've worked so hard to resurrect in your mid-youth just slip by? Doesn't Silent Hill 2 sound so much better? Doesn't a different, less fleshed out idea sound like such a fun thing? What about your blog and substack? How are your NIN reviews going? Oh, you've only done two of them? And you planned to do... all... of... them by... when? By like a month ago? God, no, no, it's cool, really, it's so cool that you're so laid back and chill that you let every bit of creativity kinda waltz past you in a blink. No, that's like super metro and prog of you, no totally. Very cool, guy. I like men who let their lives fly away in a mild breeze like Mary Poppins or a plastic bag. It's the deepest thing, really, to see your life float around like a shopping bag. God, that movie nailed it, didn't it. It's so profound to be in a meaningless state... the place where the wind carries you in circles because you've lost your meaning and have been discarded to the great outdoors. So profound, really. Truly, it is. 

The great artist, the great writer, comes crashing to a halt at the most inconsiderate time. This is the time to be cracking and all you can do is fucking bitch on your blog. chasewinter.blogspot.com. hehehe look at me guys, I have a blog. I post all kinds of edgy rambles and pseudo-creative short stories and I'm-the-bag-of-chips rants. Hehehe. Chase, wow, you're such a great writer. I really like how unprofessional you sound and how much you don't seem to think about the impact these neurotic rants might have on your future. What if your January rants got checked out by an employer? All that- those- you know- bits about, well, suicide and substance use? Substance use- you mean drugs? Yeah, drugs, all that stuff. Who cares. Fuck them. Let them find out. Matter of fact, if they think that the things I say on a blog that gets one view per month will impact my performance, I say thank you. Thank you for believing that I'm such a recognizable and important figure that the things I say really do matter to your customers. I hate this world. 

But I love it. And I love you. And I love writing. And I love reading and singing and painting and fucking and listening to a damn good album or playlist on a rainy day and I love getting a caffeine panic attack and a nicotine rush in the morning and sometimes a fantastic poop is all I really need to keep going, keep pushing, keep making good art and eating less-than-good food and when I'm all dried out and totally plucked like a grocery-store flower cart, I take a big wet gulp of chlorinated tap water and think wow, isn't this something? I feel fucking fantastic right now and god-help me I'm going to have another cup of water before I go to bed. 

And then it's three in the morning and I've been on a date with Lauren Bacall and I'm stirred from the table in my head by a heaviness in my groin and I must piss or so help me it's laundry day again. 

God bless this country.

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