So I have a problem. It’s a writing problem and it’s driving me crazy. Here I am with tons of ideas, scenes and characters swimming around in my head like sperm racing to the egg but they all keep bonking their head on the ovum of creativity and never quite develop into anything worth while. I’ve tried free-writing, reading more, sketching, all sorts of things.
How can I fancy myself a writer if I don’t fucking write? That’s like, “Hey, what’s up I’m a hairdresser but I really work on cars”, that’s not what I want to do. I want to accept that maybe I’m just not a writer, but I don’t want to. That feels like giving up. And fuck that. If I need to write, I’ll write out of spite. That’s how all the greats did it. Potato chips were a product of spite, crispy, deep-fried spite.
Fuck you, brain. We’re going to work together and write something to blow the pants off of the world. You may not be the next Toni Morrison, Dorothy Parker or Tina Fey, but you can write. You’re writing now. Look at that. You think things, your fingers move, and words. Now just do that, but with a plot, characters, a setting and some kind of driving force or social commentary. Is that so hard? Yeah. It is.
I’m such a weenie. I’ve been putting off a simple writing exercise for class because I’m afraid it’ll be bad. You know what, tumblr? That’s okay. The world is full of famous bad bad writing and none of it is yours. At least I won’t get universally famous for being a bad writer, I’ll just be a bad writer in a fiction class at a shitty state school in Tennessee. How damn important do I think I am that this’ll matter six months, two years or even (more realistically) a week from now? Whether I’m a writer or not, I’m going to try and if there is a writer in me somewhere then I’m going to find her and chain her to my computer with only Microsoft Word and a pot of coffee until she’s produced something worthwhile.
