loopinfinite

I wish I could just sit down and type, without even pausing until I’m done with whatever it is I’m trying to write.

I gather that’s the way inspiration is supposed to work.

When an idea comes to you, it’s supposed to grab you by the hand and pull you, hard, in a specific direction, and if you want to keep up with it you need to run.

Follow that idea and if you’re lucky it takes you somewhere crazy, to a place like nowhere you’ve ever been. And you can relax once you’re there. You can do what you need to do. Your words are guaranteed to come slick and easy.

I can’t get any of this to happen. Ideas show up, drag me along for a few feet, then vanish. I may get flashes of insight; they short out before they can illuminate a goddamn thing. I can’t count on inspiration.

Without it, I have to consciously think. That’s hard. My brain is a garden choked with thick, sick vines. My thoughts are bees. My neurons are flowers. My thoughts/bees have trouble flying between my neurons/flowers. It’s a pain in the ass with all this thick overgrowth in the way.

And so everything that comes out of me feels wrong, the stilted product of violent and belabored thrashing. My brain is an engine that doesn’t even work. Everything I write consists of deformed and broken semi-ideas I had to superglue together.

I could be a fraud. I might not have the mental fortitude to ever write anything that isn’t bullshit. There may be a cold, hard truth here I need to face: I just might not be very good at this.