I got up this morning feeling like several kinds of crap and feeling guilty for feeling that way. I mean here I am in a warm house with food on the table running hot and cold water. Okay I’m not living in the Ritz Carlton and my main source of transportation is a bicycle and I can’t go out on the weekend if I buy a new household item but still … And I still feel like a steaming pile of dog turd. And now on top of that I feel guilty for feeling like crap.(That’s what happens when you watch the news in the morning. You feel guilty for having it better than countless other schmucks and then you feel like an insignificant speck in the universe compared to all these important things going on.)
This weekend my dog Spud bit me, not just nipped at me, full on bit my leg. I have the black and blue bruises and abrasion to prove it. So that was not so great. I sat around for a day crying and trying to come to terms with my having to have the dog put down but then my partner convinced me that we didn’t need to do it because of this one incident. I warned him he could be next, he said he was okay with that. Okay fine. I’m still reeling from that whole experience.
Speaking of my partner, all we did was fight and bicker all fucking weekend. I had four days off and it was so awful I was actually looking forward to coming back to work today. How sad is that? Which brings me to my complacency, my lack of motivation and therefore my virtually not writing anymore … again … I would really like to know what exactly is wrong with me here?
I’ve even joined a wonderful writing site scribophile.com filled with loads of insightful and friendly people willing to dole out advice in exchange for same and it’s a great place … if I would ever put any of my writing on there and keep up a routine. I don’t know why, but I can’t seem to maintain any kind of momentum. I go all guns ablazin’ and then it lags within a week or two.
I’m reading a book by Dennis Leary now and he said something towards the effect of he was too comfortable in his job and lifestyle so he had to give up his cushy job and nice apartment and go live in squalor and claw his way to the top. Yeah that’s great when you’re twenty or maybe even thirty years old but this old back is too old and settled to go back to milk crates and a futon. I just can’t believe that comfort is the thing that is sucking the life out of writing, how sad is that?
I get by-weekly and daily posts from people who aren’t necessarily earning an income from their posts and they seem to be able to do it and do it with enthusiasm even. I wonder what is wrong with me. Well I know a lot of things are wrong with me but in this particular instance, I wonder why I can’t seem to sustain any momentum … I’ve thought about going on anti-depressants but that will definitely not help the creative process … Man, it’s not easy being me, wanna trade?