I get like this sometimes.Â I’m like this most of the time.Â “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, notÂ working onÂ someÂ story I want to tell, damn-near causes me physical pain.Â I feel useless and lazy, like I don’t deserve to call myself a writer.Â My friends want to know why I stopped watching Heroes and Studio 60.Â It’s because that’s two hours each week I wouldn’t be writing, and it drives me up the wall.Â Shawna wonders why I grumble whenever we have to go to the grocery store or house hunt.Â Same reason.Â EverybodyÂ 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).Â Goddammit, I got shit to write about.Â I have to love something in order for it to drag me away from the keyboard.Â Shawna, Food, Friday night with my friends.Â That’s it.Â That’s all I can justify to myself.Â 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.Â Keene spends twelve to fourteen hours a day pounding away at the keys.Â Shawna tries to tell me to calm down.Â 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.Â 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.Â Couldn’t get to sleep.
Writers are crazy.Â They’re bugfuck insane.Â I pity Shawna each and every day.Â I have no idea how she’s put up with me this long.Â Maybe she’s got some delusion that I’ll be successful.
Sorry, Shawna.Â I don’t make this world easy for you.Â I can’t even make it easy for myself.