I’ve lost count how many times I’ve opened up a draft here and stared at the blank, white expanse for an indeterminate amount of time, then proceeded to close out the tab without touching the keyboard. I’ve been hacking and slashing at this post in particular for over a week now. Parts are irrelevant at this point, but it’s six-something in the morning and I’ve been awake since four-ish. Irrelevant sounds perfectly fine at the moment.
It’s Wednesday, but I’m already bracing myself for the miserable headache I know I’m going to have this weekend. Because it’s every four weeks like clockwork and I can pretty much set my damn watch by it.
I am unsettled.
That’s the best way I can describe it right now.
There are many contributing factors. Most of them far beyond my control.
I noticed a sudden, exponential spike in anxiety recently without any obvious (or at least new) triggers and then I looked at the weather report, seeing a long string of temperatures above eighty degrees, and uttered a lot of expletives. As I type, the weather app on my phone is warning me about temperatures in the 90’s and all their accompanying misery. We’re in the midst of multiple days in the mid to high 90’s and I really want my April blizzards back.
It’s that time of year again. Good old Summertime SAD is rolling in.
Expletives and rude gestures and lots of them.
I was talking to Bob about music-related people I have been fixated on as of late, and regaling him with my completely baseless theories of certain relationships between said music people. (Really just writing fanfiction in my head.) His response was, “Sounds like you’ve got a story there.” I hadn’t even considered writing it out as a story (fanfiction or otherwise) but after he said it, I started thinking about the prospect and what I could do with it.
I wasn’t really expecting a response in all my yapping. It was bedtime. And often when I’m restless/anxious/whathaveyou I talk about things (at great length, usually writing related) while he listens and eventually falls asleep. He knows sleep is not going to come easy to me (it never does, but at times it’s much worse), so he’ll pose a question he thinks will get me talking, which distracts me from things making me anxious, and helps relax my constant agitation to a lesser degree. It works. Every. Damn. Time. I don’t always sleep afterwards, but it’s still effective on the anxiety.
Have I ever mentioned that I hit the bloody jackpot with this guy? Because I have. We’re over a decade in on this roadshow and he still confounds me with how well he KNOWS me.
Anyway.
I haven’t written anything on my concocted theories on musicians, but the gears are turning. They’re always turning.
Part of me is reluctant to start anything because it feels like all I’ve been doing lately is starting new documents I know are going to go nowhere, while trying to steer my bad-addled brain towards the projects that actually have merit. There’s one in particular that actually has a plot, including a start and end point figured out. I really like the premise and the characters, and I’ve come to terms with the fact that it’s a little too utopian and sometimes utopia is okay. But I am treading water with no idea how to actually proceed. There are a few stories in the pipeline that have the start/end/plot figured out and I haven’t been able to make measurable progress on any of them. It’s like some weird paralysis happening when it comes to the ones that actually stand a chance at getting finished.
Why do I do this to myself?
Instead I type nonsense on the ones that are little more than a brain purge. I wrote roughly two thousand words in two days on a really dumb conversation. Which is quite an accomplishment compared to how terribly writing has been going lately. It’s absolute crap, but the whole thing has amused me greatly so I’ll take it. Sometimes giggling to myself like an idiot is more effective than any of the overpriced pharmaceuticals I spent years swallowing on the daily.
Maybe I’ll write out my baseless musician theories. Maybe I’ll concoct another fictional band to impose those theories on. Maybe I’ll go back to Ben and Marina again. Because no matter where my head is, they are always on the outskirts, not letting me forget about them. Maybe I’ll go back and edit this post a seventy-fifth time to clear up the multitude of run-on sentences. Or maybe just I’ll make another origami chair for a tiny, thirty-some-year-old bunny to sit in on my desk.
What?
You thought I was kidding?
You should know better by now.
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I Met a Girl Wheat |