I need to stop doing this...
I was reading Owl City's blog today. I honestly think he is one of the best poets of today, his writing is so elegant and simple and lovely. He has a talent for making something that should be incomrehensible run crystal clear through my mind like a reel of film. In particular, this entry stands out to me: http://owlcityblog.com/2011/04/04/hercules-goes-bananas/#more-5092
Now, reading this has done two things for me: it has made me wildly depressed, because fuck, he's good, and it just drives home how far I have to go. He wrote that in the hospital in a sleep-deprived, morphine-induced haze. I can't write that good sober and well-rested. Thankfully, his words aren't just beautifully strung together, they are also full of hope and optimism and makes me feel good, and that makes me want to write more. The color and beautiful imagery just pours out of his work with every letter, and that's just the way i would like to be able to write myself. But often, I feel like I can't see my own writing. I always get some kind of vibe or feeling off of different authors; this one emanates comfort, this one empowerment, this one innocent fun. I can't even put into words what exactly I mean, that was the best I can manage. But either way, my own writing, to me, always just feels blank. I guess it's like how you can't smell yourself? or hear your voice the way others hear it? Everyone's got a sort of distinctive signature to their creativity, and I don't know what mine feels like, so I don't know if it's any good.
Unfortunately, I've been pulled for work in the yard today, laying out pavers for this patio area. Which means I won't be able to write or draw. Which means the happy will probably fade away, leaving me enveloped in that depressing lack of confidence in my work. And that's never a good thing, because if i sink into another stint of depression, I won't be able to produce anything, good or bad, for days or even weeks.
Now, reading this has done two things for me: it has made me wildly depressed, because fuck, he's good, and it just drives home how far I have to go. He wrote that in the hospital in a sleep-deprived, morphine-induced haze. I can't write that good sober and well-rested. Thankfully, his words aren't just beautifully strung together, they are also full of hope and optimism and makes me feel good, and that makes me want to write more. The color and beautiful imagery just pours out of his work with every letter, and that's just the way i would like to be able to write myself. But often, I feel like I can't see my own writing. I always get some kind of vibe or feeling off of different authors; this one emanates comfort, this one empowerment, this one innocent fun. I can't even put into words what exactly I mean, that was the best I can manage. But either way, my own writing, to me, always just feels blank. I guess it's like how you can't smell yourself? or hear your voice the way others hear it? Everyone's got a sort of distinctive signature to their creativity, and I don't know what mine feels like, so I don't know if it's any good.
Unfortunately, I've been pulled for work in the yard today, laying out pavers for this patio area. Which means I won't be able to write or draw. Which means the happy will probably fade away, leaving me enveloped in that depressing lack of confidence in my work. And that's never a good thing, because if i sink into another stint of depression, I won't be able to produce anything, good or bad, for days or even weeks.