Writing and Cats and Bacon and Chocolate

Buragh argh argh…okay, here we go.

Writing. It sucks. Most of the time, it sucks. I hate to read poor writing, I hate to write poor writing, I dislike how I get started on a promising story and then run out of things to say and I dislike writing for writings sake. Sometimes being a writer can be a good thing; I can step into my own world, get completely lost in character and thought and time. But sometimes it’s difficult to write something that has meaning. Even writing this blog now, it’s becoming difficult for me to think of things to say.

At the minute, my head’s in a little all-over-the-place, place. I’m often distracted by things I like doing other than writing. A few weeks ago, this was not the case. A few weeks ago, I found it hard to be interested in anything, and I quickly found myself bored out of my brain. I’m glad I’ve found the interest in things again, but I have an interest in too many things at the minute, alongside writing. I can’t seem to devote time to just writing. It’s not that I’m stuck, not that I don’t know what to write, it’s simply not knowing if I have the faith in myself to write something with meaning.

Once every three months or so, I do a laptop chuck-out. I go through music and picture folders, I get rid of documents and shit I don’t need anymore, and in the past I’ve always gone over the same few bits of stories that I never finished. Over time, these stories, plus loads of other bits of writing have survived the laptop chuck-out, I have a need to keep them around, like pictures of people I don’t see anymore.

I deleted pictures of some friends from high-school I never talk to. I’ve never done it before, but it didn’t mean much to me when I deleted them. It was just old bits of megabytes clogging up my hard-drive. So I started doing this with my writing. I attempted to rework some old material, and anything else that was just laying there got trashed. Permanently. I didn’t feel remorseful, didn’t feel that I had done a bad thing, it cleared some of my writing-brain. It’s like I have this extra part in my head where I store stuff for stories, and the less clogged-up this was, the more I could focus on actually finishing something.

But finishing something gets increasingly difficult when what I really want to do is other stuff, like play Terraria for hours on end, play Gears of War all night, watch the rest of Season 4 of Sons of Anarchy, re-watch old Misfits episodes, read a book, eat something that doesn’t have one of my 5-a-day in it, take pictures of random shit and then post it on Facebook.

Doing all this might seem like procrastination, but what it really does is help me to rebalance my aura. When I’m content with life, my writing is at it’s best. I don’t write happy-clappy stuff though, what I mean is when I’m super-duper in my life, it just means that the way I kill off my characters is even more gruesome and experimental :).

Oh, here’s some pictures of mine and my boyfriends pets being fucking adorable:

2013-02-12 00.49.07

2013-02-11 20.20.50

Mucho Love




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