Mental Meanderings

I don't wanna!

Yeah! That's me in a grumpy, stubborn, frustrated mood. Torn between telling my writing to go to hell tonight or getting it over and done with like I should. I really, really, REALLY don't want to tonight but if I let slip tonight then it's another night it doesn't happen which empowers all those others nights it doesn't happen.

I should just shut up and get it done but I smack up against this wall of stubborn refusal. Even this blog entry will turn out to be a bitchy rant because I don't want to be here. I want to be in bed, reading, watching a movie, sleeping, whatever. Whatever I do I just don't want to be here.

Perhaps what I do need is to get away and read. I haven't read a book in a long time and I'm frustrated by that. Reading is one of my greatest joys but lately there just never seems to be enough time to break off and read a book cover to cover. I have so many other responsibilities and obligations that have to come first.

I think that's what I'll end up doing tonight. I SHOULD write Flight of Torque but this build up of dread is killing any desire to be a writer. It can't be good for me. What happened to the joy, the love of writing? What happened to freeing myself on a page? These days it just feels like being crushed by the shackles of my own expectations. When did writing stop being something I want to do and become the only thing I felt I could do?

I can't even do it well. Why am I so focused on a goal I could never truly accomplish. Why do I spend my life chasing the impossible dreams? I'm young enough that I could train up in some other career choice, especially since my youngest starts school next year. There must be something I could do and enjoy doing it.

I feel like a teenager again. This sort of turmoil is what people feel when they're choosing their major. Except I feel like a failure because in a sense I've chosen my major. I've put years into it but not accomplished anything, not even grown. I've become jaded and judgemental.

Sometimes it doesn't feel like my dream at all any more. Just the make believe world I create for myself to make me feel ok about the failure I am as a human being. I label myself a writer and it makes me feel good because I can pretend I'm going to influence the world and bring people joy and teach people the real wonderment of life. But maybe all I'm really doing is finding another way to run away from reality, to be someone I'm not.

I try to find a place inside myself where I truly enjoy writing. I search but all I see is the pain and the regret and the overwhelming shadow of failure and incompetency. I used to believe that writing is something I could learn to do well. But perhaps it's only something someone destined to write learns to do well. If I'm just some stupid bimbo who is destined to live on the bottom rung as the worthless underbelly scum of poverty raising babies and being the erotic fantasy of any single man then I'm certainly fooling myself thinking I could write.

*grimaces* This is making me more determined not to tonight. The blog entry will come to a close and I'll log off and cry myself to sleep, or numb my brain with a movie I've seen a hundred times before, or read one of those chick books that clutter my shelf specifically for times like this when I want to turn the world off and stop existing.

Maybe if I surface I'll remember what I love about writing. Why I do this. Maybe if I surface I'll be able to believe in myself again. Or maybe I will just put the books in the draw, clear out my archives, stack away the guides, and move onto something else. Maybe if I'm really lucky I'll just disappear for good.