Friday, February 23, 2007

Internal monologue. (Plagued by doubt)

Pathetically, I know one of the reasons I've never written anything long-form. It isn't just that I think I'm going to fail. It isn't just that I don't have the time. It isn't, unfortunately, simply that I don't want to do the work.

I can't sit still. I don't like being alone. And my mind is so frantic and in such need of attention or conversation that I can't stay alone in a room for very long. When I think about the work - like the big, big project I've had in my head for a couple years now, I think I can't do it. I always picture scenes, rather than words on a page. I see the characters living and moving. I just wish that I could describe them. Maybe a screenplay, although I doubt my ability to do that, too.

When I've spoken with authors, they always talk about rising before dawn and/or locking themselves in a room. Oh my God, I think I would go fucking insane damn doing that.

I keep thinking that eventually my drive will return, that the story will just take over and compel me to write it.

Still fucking waiting.

(Yes, my friend Lupo would inform me that this is a passive, rather than active, approach to one's own goals and one's own life. I'm aware but apathetic.)

I just thought - rather dumbly - that it was just supposed to happen.

(I'm not dumb. I know exactly how bad or sad or unmotivated or dumb I sound. I'm trying reverse psychology on myself.)

My story's about identity. I want to write it. I am tired of writing about writing about it.

There's no time like now. Except now, it's 1 a.m., and I have to be at work at 9.

I write. I can write. I can fucking write. Seriously I can motherfucking write. I can motherfucking write like a goddamn motherfucker.

(God, this reverse psychology thing is hard.)

At work, in fact everywhere, one of my problems is focus. Another is that I overanalyze everything. I don't take an unexamined step, and I stress way way way too much.

I can't just ask the guy to dinner. (I stammer.) I can't just write. (I take the class and fill the free time.) I can't just quit the job. (I go on a seven-year-long job hunt that's more passive reaction to "Hey, they're interviewing ... Maybe you'd like it ..." than active search.) I can't just relax around new people. (I'm the awkward apologizer who's nice enough yet clearly trying too hard to make an impression.)

I keep thinking it's a phase that I'll break out of.

Maybe I will. Maybe I should just retire "Benjamin" and become someone more motivated.

Would I enjoy being a writer if I actually worked at it?

How much could I have written while I was writing this?

To end on a positive note, the scenes from the story that are in my head are generally original and decently good. It isn't until I try to write them down that I doubt that I have the first idea what I'm doing.

What good is it to be afraid of fear? Someone once asked me that.

At the time, I didn't understand what he meant.

I know what I have to do. I think I might maybe do it eventually.

Don't judge too harshly. It's late.

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