Writing: The Struggle is Real
Writing, when it comes, is a glorious waterfall of emotions and glory. The feeling is one I can hardly describe. But there are moments, times, days, weeks, months when you become beaten. Slapped. Kicked. Beaten with a bat, run over by car. Shot. Stabbed. Trampled by a stampede.
It’s a moment when you sit down to get to work and there is a void. A great nothingness. Thus begins a struggle with an invisible foe. It feels like it’s you against a black hole. It sucks you in and you can’t quit it. You stand no chance.
It’s nothing. Nothing.
So you try to turn your thoughts away from the typing part of writing, try to focus on other things like notes. Research. Something.
Punched. Spit upon. Scarred, cut, wounded.
You’re not sure you can go on. You try desperately to trick yourself into it by turning to music. That trusty playlist you’ve been building up with music to help inspire and guide you. So you listen. You listen. You listen still.
HOLY MOTHER OF NOTHINGNESS.
There is no end in sight. She has her hands around your neck, strangling and digging her fingernails into your skin. She looks deeply into your eyes and you can see her smile. She grins with delight. She enjoys your bitter end.
A tear escapes your eye and trickles down your temple. She’s on top of you now, crushing your chest. It’s getting harder to breathe. You can feel your life force giving in to her desires.
What is this? Could it be? No, surely not.
But, ho! It is!
A glorious, wondrous thought. A beautiful thought. An idea. Perhaps the thing you’d been missing all this time. Your eyesight returns from the blackness. You can see that wretched woman’s smile fade from her eyes. You grab her arms and pull them apart, her hands unlatching from your neck.
Somewhere in the distance opera music plays, reaching its crescendo. A triple forte.
You look her in the eyes, you tell her to go. You have an idea after all. You toss her across the floor, she springs up on all fours like a cat. Her back hunched, she hisses.
“Not today, old maid!” You scoff at her. “I’m a writer, and I have an idea. A wonderful, glorious thought.”
You sit down at the desk once more. The opera chorus sings in triumph now, louder and louder. You pick up your pen, your weapon. You shall die by it, by gum. You put pen to paper and suddenly…
An organ crashes. The chorus halts.
An overwhelming feeling. A dark, heavy feeling. It bears down on your back like an Acme anvil. You physically begin to cave under its pressure, its weight. Can it be? No. No. YES! It is!
It’s been done before.
HOLY MOTHER OF BACON BITS.
You look to your old adversary. Her eyes smile once more. She let you believe it. She led you to this outcome. It was her all along. She was merely toying with you, like a cat with its trusty toy. Fooled. Again.
“Well played, milady.” You tell her. “Well played.”
You write a blog post instead. Screw her.