Why I hate writing and how it has made me an awful person.
I am over this writing thing. It sucks.
Most of the writing advice on the interweb is trash. Advice like: write every day and ‘hook’ the reader. Uhh, okay, sure.
I don’t know how to do any of that and if I’ve hooked a reader in the past, no one notified me.
I never received an email from someone who said: OMG, I was getting ready to bounce from your shitty piece but then, that one sentence, got me hooked.
Never. No one would even send an email like that. I’m being dramatic.
The worst part about writing is you eventually get to a point where you ‘think’ your prose is decent, if not a little above average. It almost feels like the only way to improve is to write with better ideas.
And this is where shit goes wonky.
Every idea I’ve had in the past is no longer good enough. I can’t write a listicle or some vague piece full of ‘actionable content.’ I just can’t do that. The next piece has to be epic, or at least a little more epic than my most epic piece.
And there lies the problem. Once you learn the fundamentals of basic internet writing, coming up with good ideas becomes the issue.
I abuse myself day and night. Not about writing, but about my lack of writing. WTF is wrong with me? Why can’t I think of something decent?
It’s the critical voice in my head that once said: “you’re not good enough,” and is now saying: “you’re not smart enough.”
And let me tell ya, my inner critic is a relentless, mean-spirited heckler. Sometimes I think he’s on drugs, and not sissy drugs like coke or meth either. I’m talking about bath salts or some shit.
Of course, it doesn’t help when you don’t have a backup plan. When I decided to start writing on the web it was part of a plan to make some extra cash.
But when the pandemic hit, it became my only plan for income. This is the path, and there’s no turning back. No pressure there.
So, I spend my days bitching and moaning in my head and beating myself up over my constant state of ‘not writing’ while combing through satanic apps [Twitter] and listening to writing gurus talk about how ‘professional writers don’t get writer's block’ while patiently waiting for beer o’clock so I can escape from my personal version of hell while telling myself — I’ll write tomorrow. I. Am. An. Effin. Liar.
I feel sorry for the humans who have to live with me. Even when I’m not writing, I’m writing, which in all reality is me staring at the computer screen agonizing over what to write.
And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let them interrupt that process with their self-important nonsense. For god's sake, I am a freakin artist, you people!
And what kind of lunatic writes anyway? You have to be an egomaniac to believe that there are people who want to read your boring lifeless thoughts. I mean, do you seriously think what you have to say is interesting? That people will take time out of their lives just to read your crappy words?
It’s delusional. Especially when you’re cluttering up the internet with words unfit for the men's bathroom wall at the local pub.
Anyways, I’m rambling, and to be honest, I’m not sure where I was going with this to begin with which I suppose was the purpose of this piece — but even I’m getting bored.
Besides, it’s almost beer o’clock and I have a busy day of writing tomorrow. At least I’ve quieted the crazy drug-ridden critic in my head — if even for a short while.
If you’re reading this, I want you to know that I can’t believe I published this ‘thing’ and I’m normally a well-adjusted person. Perhaps I’m having an off day.
Also, I like playing around with different styles of writing and this has been kinda fun, albeit highly embarrassing.
Thanks for reading. For thoughts and comments, @ me on Twitter
Exploring Timeless Ideas, Life Design, and Simplicity at BarryFralick.com