I don’t believe in writers block. I believe in the brain shits though. It’s the state you find yourself in when the ability to write anything of substance, longer than a paragraph is crippling and impossible. In the winter time this leads to ever lasting depression. The kind of soul fuck that you can’t shake. The one wherein your walk to work in the cold air is so devastating, that even giving up isn’t worth the effort. It’s just better to let life steam roll itself over you.
I find myself here, at the mouth of March in the best financial shape I’ve been in for a long time. And yet the economic anxiety I have felt for the last six years hasn’t really gone away. It’s probably because every day I hear about somebody losing their jobs. It just seems like ducks lined up in a row. I’m wondering whose ass is in my face so I can anticipate the buck shot that take me out too. This type of anxiety also is not great for the creative juices. Sometimes it is, but not when your brain is so destroyed and fatigued that you can’t even complete normal functions. The nerves are fried, every one is an asshole and you just snap at them half the time and ignore them the other half the time.
So I haven’t touched my novel in over 60 days. Does that mean it’s officially done. 80 thousand words in. The most of any story, anecdote or observation tied together in a loose narrative I’ve ever shat out of my Vienna sausage fingers. In these times of fantastic loathing of self and the world around me I want to smash the computer, quit my job and walk into the woods. Or sit on my fat ass and wait for House, M.D. to pop up on the television. Ah yes, the massive, mind numbing, soul sucking piece of shit I spend far too many of my hours embraced in. The warm, fuzzy glow of nothingness washes smoothly within my brainwaves. What’s left of them anyway.
I can’t seem to finish anything. What the fuck? I want to be a writer, but what do writers do when they can’t write. Some of them go on spiritual journeys, some of them drink, fuck and fight, some of them go play with their kids and wife and then return to drum out bullshit that gets on Oprah or reviewed in the last dying places that still care about writing and literature. None of which I actually engage. Some writer. It’s like the bands that don’t watch the other bands play on the same tours and bills. Painters that don’t go to gallery’s. I read. But not nearly enough. What a fucking dipshit.
So yes, I have brain shits. The fucking winter is killing me again and if it doesn’t get warmer outside, I’m going to see Kenny Brown and get a F.T.W tattooed on my neck and and saying the hell with all this bullshit. I just want to smash this fucking laptop on the floor, drink a beer and sit on the porch. If it wasn’t covered in ice and dirty snow.