It is so crippling when I can’t pen pieces for my blog because the words won’t come, or when the topics and ideas are dull, contrived, repetitive. The pent-up frustration turns me into monster. I lose my temper more quickly; I snap at people and become a whining, petty, self-entitled little shit. OK, I am already those things, but just more so when I can’t write for lack of creativity and ideas.
This is not my problem now. Ideas for blogs and things to say are in no shortage – in fact, it’s quite the opposite: my head has – in the recent weeks – exploded with a thousand evocative, emotional confession pieces: from admissions of wanting to resume my love affair with drugs and my unhealthy infatuation with Cris, confessions of broken trust both in me and my trust in others, to fiction pieces for my 642 series.
There is too much to say. My fear is that I will try and get all I have to say into one blog of such immense length and detail that it could realistically be titled the ‘Encyclopaedia Mundania’ and left to rot in a basement somewhere for aeons, unread, unloved and all sorts of other un-things, which serve to undermine my creative bent.
I need a release. Some sort of creative entry that serves as a pressure valve for the stream of consciousness welling up inside me, that will begin the slow, controlled eviction of my thoughts onto virtual paper.
“What if it’s all rubbish? What if no one reads it?” Insecurities that whisper just behind my eyes.
Well, of course, if a writer had to give in to all these insecurities and fears he’s never get a piece written. Him being me, of course. And I am going through a particularly sensitive and dramatic phase right now. Bordering on paranoia. For everyone around me, these paranoid delusions and this highly sensitive and very vocal emotional instability of mine must be annoying. It gets in the way of my work, of my healing and of my growing. Bloody hell! Where’s a decent line of coke to quell the insecurity when you need one?
None to be had, and it wouldn’t work even if there was one. I broke the cocaine mechanism in my brain years ago, and all it served to do for the rest of my active addiction was to make me even more paranoid, and a bigger asshole than ever.
So, then. Life, on life’s terms. A mantra from my Narcotics Anonymous meetings. I have to weather these storms without a crutch. I have to face them, and deal with the ups and downs that are part of a normal, chemical-free life. Not easy, but then I guess no one gets that ride for free.
Five hundred words, and a commitment to write more. How the hell did that happen? I still don’t know what the opposite of Writer’s Block is. Perhaps a walk on the beach will distract me from needing to know.
© Dave Luis 2013. All rights Reserved.