My everything has been wearing down as of late. Nothing makes sense and everything appears to make me nervous. What I once enjoyed doing now seems like a burden. Like the stories I am trying to write. I know the ideas: I know the rhymes. I know the rhythms but what individual notes to play to make this whole idea speak with the language of music that I know my ideas can speak?
The lack of sleep and the apparent distress do nothing to aid me forward in my own quest for self-actualization or even to get anything done these days without the help of something. I want to write so badly in all of my novels, the seven I hope to accomplish, it’s so difficult to make myself write I simply put it off. I can only get a paragraph for every hour I try to work on it. I spend the first little while editing just to remember where I was going with this current thought process and then by the time editions are done, I hope that’s when my substance of choice kicks in to make the words flow a little easier.
The wine I drink seems to have no effect. The other things I take don’t seem to aid in my writing compositions. I only seem to write in this thing, when something is on my mind, prohibiting my writing of any of my own novels. Goddamnit, I simply want to read something beautiful, to have something in my hands that doesn’t make my hand quake every time I hand a copy of it to someone else. Goddamnit, I just want to be proud of something that came from my brain to deal unto the masses that inspires me as much as I feel sometimes to strike forth a revolution. No matter the kind. All that truly matters that I reach someone out there that will listen, that will listen to the ideas I have, the words I buy and sell on this flagrantly disrespecting market that worships nothing more than beauty treatments…. But what I am I supposed to do with these own self-aggrandizing statements about my own ideas? They are simply like all the others. Another arising to change the status quo. Another hero’s story. What’s so special about that? Why would anyone be inspired by my own idolatry to deities that don’t exist but in my own made-up world I made several years ago to avoid the stinging and nagging and torrential pain of a breakup… to cease the rumination that overwhelmed me trying to figure out what’s wrong, what’s wrong with me, the situation, my life, everything that concerns me. I created this world that I wish I could give justice to serve others like me hoping for an escape from the abusive reality that beats us down…. I want to be a bringer of hope, a bringer of light. Show others what they can do… that what they wish to be true can be true. But here I am stuck writing letters of pity on how I can’t seem to motivate myself to achieve such things. Save your advice. I don’t need it because I’ve heard it before, and the only way I can hear your cliched “Dear Abbys” is with a mocking tone that provides no help to no one. Oh read more about how successful other writers are and copy them. Oh HOW FUCKING MARVELOUS! LIKE I HAVEN’T HEARD THAT 50x BEFORE!! HOW VERY NOVEL OF YOU!
Jesus, grow up and get some real advice going than regurgitating what you read on Reddit or in an Oprah magazine. It helps no one that your 4Chan philosophy is out there and roaming around in the heads of people who believe they are smarter than they actually are. Stick to what you’re good at: being silent.
Unless you’re a well-established writer, I want to hear nothing from you. Go mind your own forums on matters that fit your skill set — whatever they may be.