Here We Go Again

Writing is the most aggravating, frustrating chore. At least it is for me. I don't enjoy as much as I thought I would. I hate every plodding word as much as I hate the features on my face. You can tell by the jarring, jerky sound of my writing that I have no instinct of rhythm, that my thoughts are random and scattered, and that I don't possess a useful thought in my head. I talk about the most inane, boring shit in the most awkward way. Every time I sit down to write I feel as if I'm trying to start the rusted engine of a decrepit automobile. If it even starts up at all, it revs and dies, revs and dies, gives out before it can make it up the hill, and slides back to where it was originally parked, sometimes a few feet behind it. And there's me behind the wheel, cursing the wretched thing to go; go some where--anywhere--just as long as I move.

Yeah, fuck writing. Seriously, fuck it. I can't stand it. It's the hardest thing I ever had to do. My hands actually ache the moment I begin to type. My brain rejects everything it produces in print, and commands that I go back and revise a word before I even set it down.

There's got to be away to kill this inner critic of mine. It's destroying my spirit, telling me I'm a failure before I even try. I want to write about my experiences working at the drug store, but I can't seem to get the thoughts in my head straight. It's like there's a cold war going on between my thoughts and my fingers; neither faction is reasoning with the other. And the treasures of my imagination hide in the dark, rejecting self fulfillment and objective expression, as if shunning the light of being. Why? I have such beautiful, lyrical dreams, mental images that sing with wonder. Are they perfect only in the shadows and fear the inherent impurity of form? This can be the only answer, for which I have my mother to blame. She gave me dreams but taught me to never act on them. Such is the way of witches. They never share their treasures with the outside world. They horde them, horde them in the darkest cave, in the highest tower, and the deepest pit. But I don't want that for my dreams. I want them to be born, no matter how painful the process.

Practice is pain, I suppose. I may as well grit my teeth and bear it.