I want to write but my hands won't move right. Or maybe it's my brain that won't. Do I have any ideas? Do any concepts flow through me? Can I open myself to the universe and let whatever it is flow through me?
Writing is automatic for me. I do not choose what to write. I just do. Sometimes I can vaguely sense where I'm heading. But ultimately, it's an automatic process. The more I try to control it, the less well it works. Naval-gazing just slows me down. It encourages overthinking allowing my legs to tangle and trip me.
Do you ever think about how it would feel to fly? To jump and fall for just a moment before your wings unfurl and catch you? Can you trust them? Can you trust yourself? Can you stay up? What if you push too hard, get too tired? Was Icarus a warning or a promise? Everyone hates a showoff, so they train their guns to the sky seeking those of us who dare to cast of the ground.
It is vital for the ego to understand that fundamentally there is no difference between me and you. None of us are special. There is no difference between my writing and yours. I am not a writer. Neither are you. I have made writing, sure. I exist through action, through exertion of the self. But anyone could. The key is just to be working, to be creating. Everything else is insignificant.
Perhaps the purpose is to be adored and I find that tragic. The act of writing changes me. Hopefully it makes me more introspective, more in touch with myself. I think it betters me. A desperation for adoration would drive me insane, I think. I would crash and burn. I would die.
Is it not hubris that I think I can write about the key to writing? I think it is hubris of the highest order. What do I know? I am not special. It is vital for the ego that I am not special because otherwise we dwell into the realms of pretentiousness, of superiority, of bravado. Anyone could do this given sufficient time. This both humbles and empowers. If anyone could do this, if genuinely anyone could do this, then why not me? Why not me? Why shouldn't it be me? Why couldn't it be me? It doesn't matter how bad I think I am. The fact of the matter is that anyone could do this and fundamentally I am a someone.
Did you know that the head writer for The Onion thinks I'm funny? It's true. He ranked a game I made on a list of his top funny Indiepocalypse games. That's pretty incredible. That's simply wild. Probably the single most important piece of feedback I've ever gotten. The head writer for The Onion thinks I'm funny. Fucked up. Am I funny? My first response was to start telling terrible jokes and then using that to blame my audience for failing to laugh. Was that a funny bit?
Where does brilliance come from? Is it the consumption of media and the regurgitation of ideas? Is it the whispers of a lover late at night? Is it the messy first draft? What am I, really? What do I deserve? Can you build an accurate picture of my mental health from my writing? Do you know me? Do you know me as well as I know myself? There's always an impossible gulf between what I mean when I write and what you read and interpret. How much is it my fault if you get it wrong?
I've been told that I have a distinctive style and I don't know how to feel about this. I never chose one. I never sat down and said "hey, I want to write like this". I'm paying attention and I think I can see it. I like my run on sentences, my multiple clauses, differing descriptors for the same effect. I like short sentences. I like short sentences with repetition to hammer home the points. I'm a little poetic. I want to capture moods and feelings more than anything else.
Why do I write most when I should be sleeping? Why do I crave the clatter of my fingers on the keyboard when I'm surrounded and then prove unable to write when I'm alone?
Once I start a piece, if I don't finish it in one sitting, it will probably never be finished. I've noticed that about myself. It's frustrating. Until I accept that most of my pieces will never be finished. But there is a tragedy to having dozens of strong openings and no endings. If I never write endings, I'll never get any better at writing endings. But how I can I write an ending without writing a beginning? Food for thought.
I'm trying to write every day. It's not going great. But I'm trying. A few weeks ago I had an idea to write a horror short story once a day for most of October. I made it to, uh, 6, if you count unfinished first drafts. Better than nothing by about 6! Celebrate your victories, not your defeats.
It's weird, right? People seem to think I do a lot, that I shouldn't have time for this many hobbies. But it doesn't feel like I have that many? Game dev got dropped off for bot dev which got dropped off for writing. I'm only ever really doing one thing at once and often badly and often at the expense of my day job (which I'm so behind on). Honestly, at this point my number one favourite life path would be to just make weird things on the internet full time. Short stories, longer ones, games, websites, bot, whatever strikes my fancy. I think it would be fun to launch a digital zine. Maybe a YouTube? I bet I would kick ass in a Minecraft Roleplay. But that is the path of no money and I have rent to pay and food to buy. Sucks. How am I supposed to master a skill to the point where I can profit in the cracks between a life? How am I supposed to make money when I hate shilling and marketing?
It's weird, I think. I know. It's weird. Life is weird and full of weird things and I want to seize them. I've got plans. I've got plans and I'm excited about them. Life is good and I'm happy. I can write and that's all that matters, really. That's the most important thing. I hope you have something important too. I hope your world is filled with love.
Today's link of the day is Nobody Live, a site which links to Twitch streams with no viewers. Sometimes when I'm bored I just click New Streamer repeatedly until I meet someone interesting. It's fun. Sometimes you make a new friend.