One of those days

I get like this sometimes.  I’m like this most of the time.  “Like” how?

Frustrated, depressed, anxious, angry, charged, paranoid, desperate, and a millions more adjectives that might have negative connotations.

It’s the writer’s lot.

Every minute I spend not creating, not working on some story I want to tell, damn-near causes me physical pain.  I feel useless and lazy, like I don’t deserve to call myself a writer.  My friends want to know why I stopped watching Heroes and Studio 60.  It’s because that’s two hours each week I wouldn’t be writing, and it drives me up the wall.  Shawna wonders why I grumble whenever we have to go to the grocery store or house hunt.  Same reason.  Everybody and their mother seems to wonder why I don’t go tubing (sitting in an innertube and floating down a piss-soaked river for five hours).  Goddammit, I got shit to write about.  I have to love something in order for it to drag me away from the keyboard.  Shawna, Food, Friday night with my friends.  That’s it.  That’s all I can justify to myself.  Anything else has to wait its turn, and that might take years.

I think about my writing time compared to others and it makes me want to hurt myself.  Keene spends twelve to fourteen hours a day pounding away at the keys.  Shawna tries to tell me to calm down.  Brian can afford to write full time, but I still feel like a waste because I don’t spend ten hours after and before work writing.  I would spend that much time, too, if I could survive on three hours of sleep a night and didn’t need to eat.

Even last night, I went to bed exhausted, but I felt guilty for not getting more writing done, so I stayed awake in a worried sweat over it.  Couldn’t get to sleep.

Writers are crazy.  They’re bugfuck insane.  I pity Shawna each and every day.  I have no idea how she’s put up with me this long.  Maybe she’s got some delusion that I’ll be successful.

Poor girl.

Sorry, Shawna.  I don’t make this world easy for you.  I can’t even make it easy for myself.


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