(no subject)
Why not write?
Not right?
Write.
I've not written for the sake of writing in a very long time. It's funny... periodically I'll write about how seldom I've been writing and how much I would like to (and perhaps in a few months I will ramble on about how I write entries that are aware of previous entries that are aware of other future entries, forming an infinite chain of self-awareness not unlike reflecting a mirror with a mirror), but I've never actually acted on it.
So what is missing? Have I fallen from the grace of my muse? Maybe so. The one I formerly called my muse is out there somewhere, perhaps smiling her fortune upon another fortunate soul. So what is there left to write? I presently produce poor poetry, putrid prose, and perpetually pretend to perceive perplexing puzzles.
"The worst part is this curse of acute self-awareness. I know what I'm doing but I feel powerless to stop it. My life is much like helplessly being held hostage in the passenger seat while my insane alter ego takes the wheel with the intent to crash." (2/20/08)
I can never make myself do anything I really refute in my heart of hearts. There is no contest when it comes to my heart vs. my mind. I never give myself a chance to write stories or poetry because they strictly never leave my imagination. It's as if they are about to leave the threshold of my lips and are accosted by the thought police. Nothing I create ever seems to live up to my impossible standards of legible literature.
I've often thought of simply letting go and writing what comes to mind, good or bad, so as not to stifle what little creativity I have, but I just get so embarrassed with my work. If I could get over this myself, it could work.
Not right?
Write.
I've not written for the sake of writing in a very long time. It's funny... periodically I'll write about how seldom I've been writing and how much I would like to (and perhaps in a few months I will ramble on about how I write entries that are aware of previous entries that are aware of other future entries, forming an infinite chain of self-awareness not unlike reflecting a mirror with a mirror), but I've never actually acted on it.
So what is missing? Have I fallen from the grace of my muse? Maybe so. The one I formerly called my muse is out there somewhere, perhaps smiling her fortune upon another fortunate soul. So what is there left to write? I presently produce poor poetry, putrid prose, and perpetually pretend to perceive perplexing puzzles.
"The worst part is this curse of acute self-awareness. I know what I'm doing but I feel powerless to stop it. My life is much like helplessly being held hostage in the passenger seat while my insane alter ego takes the wheel with the intent to crash." (2/20/08)
I can never make myself do anything I really refute in my heart of hearts. There is no contest when it comes to my heart vs. my mind. I never give myself a chance to write stories or poetry because they strictly never leave my imagination. It's as if they are about to leave the threshold of my lips and are accosted by the thought police. Nothing I create ever seems to live up to my impossible standards of legible literature.
I've often thought of simply letting go and writing what comes to mind, good or bad, so as not to stifle what little creativity I have, but I just get so embarrassed with my work. If I could get over this myself, it could work.