As much as I would love to say that I was working on other pieces or on vacation or neatly arranging huge stacks of money into several slightly smaller stacks of money (or even just busy doing anything for that matter) the truth is I was just in one of my ruts. Which was actually the entire point of setting a deadline for myself, to just write something, anything, no matter how shitty or lazy or uninspired I may be feeling. To put it in simple terms, for you simple folk, and because I just really love using WordPaint, this is what my creative process looks like.
So, moderate to severe social anxiety dips into hopelessness/worthlessness/feelings of inadequacy, finally peaking at delusions of grandeur, quickly dipping to even lower than the previous low; repeat. And the entire time I'm noticing everything, wondering how many pairs of shoes that guy sitting across from me had to try on before he finally decided on the ones he's wearing, and creating scenarios that allow me to offer effortlessly witty retorts to people who will be endlessly impressed by me and are definitely checking me out as I walk away but in a hot way, not in like a street harassment-creeper way.
Being this way kind of sucks.
While I'm glad I have writing to tap into creatively, I think sometimes (all the time) the expectations I place upon myself are so much harsher and more demanding and impossible to meet than anything anyone else might be expecting of me. Because in reality I don't think many people expect much, it's just this thing happens, and I think it's just human nature, but still, this thing happens where people seem to like what I have to say, and sometimes they say nice things to and about me, and I JUST WANT MORE!!!!! I become this insatiable mosquito, except like a literary mosquito, and I just want more and more and please just like me I WILL SAY ANYTHING TO MAKE YOU LAUGH. Which then makes me question who I'm writing for, why I write, whether or not I'm a real writer, whether or not I should go back on my meds, and I bet Ray Bradbury wouldn't give a fuck about some Twitter followers, etc...
So when I can't find these things I want to say, or even worse, I have TEN MILLION BILLION things going through my fucking head all day but I just can't figure out how to turn them into words that make sense on paper, I feel empty in my stomach, and violent in my chest, like
I'm going to fucking explode.
But I just sit still in my bedroom, with a pencil and paper and a computer and I stare and I stare and I stare, and I'm embarrassed that I even try.
But I still try. Because that's what we do.
And then I watch this and I cry and feel better.