I feel like a very bad blogger.
I've been riddled with writer's block, you see, which should be called "anxiety for artistic people, who of course have to come up with a special name for everything because they're a bunch of hipsters." Every time I stare at the cursor and think about what I'm going to write, I worry that it's going to suck. Really, really suck. I have major performance anxiety. Mypenis pen keyboard wants to do it, but it just can't. There is nothing more maddening to a writer than writer's block. Nothing.
Except maybe anything to do with Kim Kardashian and her wasteful life of airheadedness (yes, I made up a word just for her), but that goes without saying.
This weekend I got together with a fellow writer. When I bemoaned my writer's block, I was promptly told that I just need to write through it. Maybe it won't be good, but I should scrawl through the suckage, accept that not everything that comes out of my fingertips is going to be literacy gold, and then keep writing.
This concept is hard for me because, as a general rule, I'm pretty damn perfect. Well, if you overlook a few things like frizzy hair and sanity and parenting skills, anyway. It's hard for me to wrap my beautiful brain around something mediocre making it past quality control and onto the internet with my name attached to it. And yet, it happens. Sadly, not everything I write, not everything I say, not everything I do is or will be amazing.
I know, right? Mind-boggling.
The good news: Other than not writing, I've also been not painting. So at least I'm doing themed psychological events, which shows off my organizational skills nicely.
I bought an expensive camera on the weekend, which probably means that I'll be not taking pictures soon, too. It probably also means I'm not going to eat quite as much over the next month or so until the money tree replenishes itself. Food is so overrated, anyway. I think I need to start suffering more for my art. The camera is a Nikon D5100 and it takes great pictures; or it will as soon as I learn how to use it. And then it won't anymore when I start fretting over my pictures sucking. In the meantime, I'm learning all about shutter speed and aperture.
I didn't even know "aperture" was a word until Saturday afternoon. I wish that was a joke.
I'm also still going to the gym five mornings a week for an hour or so each time. It'll be 9 weeks tomorrow. My calves are starting to look almost as great as I feel and I'm down somewhere between 15 and 20 pounds. Here's a picture I didn't take with my new camera:
All the kids are doing well. Intrepid is taller than I am and has decided he's going into medicine. Huh. how about that? My son wants to be a doctor. I'm now considering taking out a out a large life insurance policy on myself and practicing my stunt driving - backwards, near a cliff. Gutsy is addicted to a game called Minecraft, which basically rules his life. I've been using any bit of creativity I have to pull him away from his laptop without any rage ensuing. So far, so good, mostly. Spawnling is hilarious when he's not talking back - well, and even when he is. I'm simultaneously excited and embarrassed for him to start kindergarten next year. I have a feeling we'll be seeing the inside of the principal's office a fair bit.
Oh, and my husband? He's attractive and does the laundry. I needn't say more than that.
Anyway, I guess the trick to writing is just to write.
Write and write and write some more.
Write junk.
Re-write it with an extra-large coffee on your desk.
Write until you cry.
Write until your own stuff makes you laugh (classic narcissist behaviour; I do this often)
Write until you bash my head into the keyboard (again, this is a fairly common event.)
Write until you romanticize the idea of inhaling too much oven cleaner and heading toward the light (thankfully not as common).
Write until you say, "ah, screw it," and put it up on the internet for other people to read, like I'm about to do with this blog post.
I've been riddled with writer's block, you see, which should be called "anxiety for artistic people, who of course have to come up with a special name for everything because they're a bunch of hipsters." Every time I stare at the cursor and think about what I'm going to write, I worry that it's going to suck. Really, really suck. I have major performance anxiety. My
Except maybe anything to do with Kim Kardashian and her wasteful life of airheadedness (yes, I made up a word just for her), but that goes without saying.
This weekend I got together with a fellow writer. When I bemoaned my writer's block, I was promptly told that I just need to write through it. Maybe it won't be good, but I should scrawl through the suckage, accept that not everything that comes out of my fingertips is going to be literacy gold, and then keep writing.
This concept is hard for me because, as a general rule, I'm pretty damn perfect. Well, if you overlook a few things like frizzy hair and sanity and parenting skills, anyway. It's hard for me to wrap my beautiful brain around something mediocre making it past quality control and onto the internet with my name attached to it. And yet, it happens. Sadly, not everything I write, not everything I say, not everything I do is or will be amazing.
I know, right? Mind-boggling.
The good news: Other than not writing, I've also been not painting. So at least I'm doing themed psychological events, which shows off my organizational skills nicely.
I bought an expensive camera on the weekend, which probably means that I'll be not taking pictures soon, too. It probably also means I'm not going to eat quite as much over the next month or so until the money tree replenishes itself. Food is so overrated, anyway. I think I need to start suffering more for my art. The camera is a Nikon D5100 and it takes great pictures; or it will as soon as I learn how to use it. And then it won't anymore when I start fretting over my pictures sucking. In the meantime, I'm learning all about shutter speed and aperture.
I didn't even know "aperture" was a word until Saturday afternoon. I wish that was a joke.
I'm also still going to the gym five mornings a week for an hour or so each time. It'll be 9 weeks tomorrow. My calves are starting to look almost as great as I feel and I'm down somewhere between 15 and 20 pounds. Here's a picture I didn't take with my new camera:
 |
| I know it's not a full-body picture. Believe me, I know. |
All the kids are doing well. Intrepid is taller than I am and has decided he's going into medicine. Huh. how about that? My son wants to be a doctor. I'm now considering taking out a out a large life insurance policy on myself and practicing my stunt driving - backwards, near a cliff. Gutsy is addicted to a game called Minecraft, which basically rules his life. I've been using any bit of creativity I have to pull him away from his laptop without any rage ensuing. So far, so good, mostly. Spawnling is hilarious when he's not talking back - well, and even when he is. I'm simultaneously excited and embarrassed for him to start kindergarten next year. I have a feeling we'll be seeing the inside of the principal's office a fair bit.
Oh, and my husband? He's attractive and does the laundry. I needn't say more than that.
Anyway, I guess the trick to writing is just to write.
Write and write and write some more.
Write junk.
Re-write it with an extra-large coffee on your desk.
Write until you cry.
Write until your own stuff makes you laugh (classic narcissist behaviour; I do this often)
Write until you bash my head into the keyboard (again, this is a fairly common event.)
Write until you romanticize the idea of inhaling too much oven cleaner and heading toward the light (thankfully not as common).
Write until you say, "ah, screw it," and put it up on the internet for other people to read, like I'm about to do with this blog post.