I feel like dog shit. Well. Aside from the fact that I physically feel like dog shit, I also feel like dog shit because I have not written anything creatively in a long, long time.
The various and sundry quips on efficient and proficient writing from Stephen King’s book “On Writing” are monotonously playing through my head. Reminding me what a pathetic excuse for a writer I truly am.
I am a writer goddamnit. I write things. I love writing. I was born with it coursing through my blood. I live and breath it. Words, rhymes, alliteration, bouncies, prancers, lingual puzzlers, jaunts and quests through the macabre and restlessness of the world. It’s where I live. It’s where I feel.
I write in my mind. Stories and tales and adventures, characters and plots and epic battles. It’s all there. Playing on a reel in my mind’s eye.
Love and sex and heroes and antiheroes, devils and angels, protags gone bad, antags gone crazy, love lost and unrequited mixed with salacious gore and nonsensory. Made up words and made up feelings, quests and rebellion and death.
Every day. With 8 people living under my roof, it seems as though I would have a wealth of muses from which to choose. A wealth of takeoffs and landings. My grail of sparks overflowing with the simple cry of a baby or Andrew’s stories of his afternoons at the lake with his friends.
Even my job gives me 8 hours a day of listening to slices of life of unknown folks I’ll never meet in their worst possible moments.
You’d think the stories would flow onto the page.
Yet they are not. Nothing is flowing actually.
I’m simply reminded of the boxes that are not getting packed. The little people looking toward me for guidance into the unknowns of adulthood. The precious little sack of taters upstairs asleep in her playpen as Mommy and Stepbabydaddy run off kayaking for the afternoon. Oh, how I wish I was complaining. But I am not.
After popping a Restoril, I am actually quite happy at the moment. Boxes can wait until I feel a bit less anemic and a bit more human. Perhaps food should be in order. Perhaps a nap. Although Sarge turned off my alarm and made me sleep until 11:00 this morning. At some point during the night, he said I mumbled something about there being no such thing as snozberries. am thinking that is when he realized I needed sleep.