What to write? What to do?'
I’m bored out of my mind even though it’s being filled with music. Beats and words bouncing through my head – inspiration flowing in…
Or not. Mostly not.
So what do I write? What do I do?
I’m so bored. No, actually I’m not. I feel awkward sitting here, I feel watched and judged. Like everybody’s reading what I’m writing down right here. Or typing, because I was so stupid to leave my little notebook full rambling thoughts – hey, hey, my blog – and really good pieces, though in need of editing and sometimes chaotic. Always chaotic.
Just like me.
Just like right now.
Because suddenly I actually start listening to the music and I feel like dancing. I imagine myself in some prehistorical fashion with a man dressed as an angry bird beside me. He’s blue, I think, and has this yellowish slowly flowing into gray –
O the song’s over. “I just can’t waaaiiiittttt (…) To be kiiiiiiiiiiinggggg”
Oh. A story about a king, perhaps? A feared king who’s organized a fighting tournament and someone participates in it – our protagonist – and this just sounds just terrible. Yes I used "just" TWICE.
It all sounds terrible.
But not this remix of Light It Up by Major Lazer.
But my writing does.
What do I write? What do I do?
Can I write well, actually?
I mean, this piece sucks. I don’t even know what I’m trying to achieve by writing all of this down. Or is that what makes writing fun? Didn’t some author say something inspirational about how writing is the chaos of the mind put into words, in some rational order? Didn’t some author talk about–
Just thinking about it gives me a headache. All those cliché, supposedly inspiring quotes! What do I do with them? How will they help me when I’ve heard them so many times over and over again?
What point is there to them?
But then, I’m getting angry for nothing. Because how cliché they may be, they can be helpful. They share the most obvious of the obvious, but sometimes, that’s EXACTLY what you need – what I need.
Because sometimes I think too hard, too difficult. I think as if the whole world is reading my mind and will judge me on my imperfections and the lameness of my ideas.
I fear to write what sounds nice, because what if it’s too cliché? What if I can’t think about anything to add to this idea? That I have a beginning but no end? An unfinished story. An unfinished project.
A failed attempt.
“No matter what you do; finish what you started. If you do so, you’ll do it always.”
My dad told me that not too long ago. And I knew that it was true all along, but I feel like I didn’t follow this rule of life, from the many rules of life. That’s when I feel like I have to finish every story I’ve begun with RIGHT NOW. That’s when I feel like I’m pulled back from my o so happy and perfect imagination and plunge into the darkness that confronts me with the downside of all things.
I mustn’t begin with another story, because I won’t be able to finish it.
I must finish the rest first. But I have no ideas. No inspiration – lame excuses. Just excuses. Always excuses.
Always excusing yourself, huh. Calling yourself a writer, huh. But where’s the writing? Why aren’t you writing?
Ugh – I hate that word. But it’s there more often than not. Failure. Failure. Failure.
What a nasty word – so negative and dark. So present and pressing. And o so effective.
Then the darkness stops and a neutral clear spot in my mind catches my eye, where I float to.
I then look at this piece.
Calling yourself a writer, huh. But where’s the writing? Why aren’t you writing?
But I’ve written.
And it may not be good. It may not be bad, either. It may not be powerful and beautiful. It may not be interesting or mindblowing. It may be meaningless and chaotic.
But it’s something. Something written.
Something I’ve written.
And then I started imagining again.