Inside my head is a stream of voices, chattering.
There is the voice that recites the novel I am trying to write. Mumbling passages that don’t yet have a place. Anecdotes about characters. Snippets of dialogue.
There is the voice that says “Hey, write your god damn blog. Blog about this….and this…”
There is voice that says
Listen to me
And write me
In couplets if it pleases
Or haikus if you must
Hold me down
and extract from me
something worth reading.
…and I am totally lost. It feels like there is so much I want to write (including much better poems than that nonesense I just made up) that I can’t latch on to anything and make it into something that anyone would want to read. I think though it is one of two things. The first? My tablets are clogging up my brain. I’ve been on them long enough again now to think I don’t need them and I will be honest, this constantly feeling agitated thing is wearing pretty god damn thin.
The second? Lack of faith.
I have no faith that I will ever complete my novel. I fear that, although I love each character dearly and they feel intensely real to me, it’s going no where. I haven’t the skill to pull it off.
I have no faith in my blog. Who want’s to listen to me ramble? Who cares what I think. I’m not funny or talented. I have nothing to say. I have no voice.
I have no faith in my poetry. I have just enough to scribble it down and then hide it from the world. Sometimes I think it’s worth showing to people, then I am filled with embarrassment at the prospect. Filled with shame for thinking anyone would do anything but laugh at my dearest and most treasured outpourings (each one is a finely crafted gem that I have pulled from myself, most likely worthless to others but highly sentimental to me).
In short reader, if there are any out there, I am under siege from writers block.
I don’t even know why I wrote this. Sigh.
Trying to feel inspired.
I have neglected you. I am sorry. Life got in the way but I promise you that not a day went by that I didn’t think about you.
Things have been a little crazy. I decided, upon becoming a slightly manic confused mess to stop taking my medication. At first I felt fantastic. I took up exercise, started running, obsessed about it and just when I started to think that perhaps I didn’t have anything wrong with me after all I hit a very grim low and I haven’t done a great deal of anything since (you should see the laundry pile… OK piles). I lost faith in my book and stopped writing. I skipped college for two weeks, I simply couldn’t face people. I even stopped taking cat pictures.
Dearest blog I am sure you will be displeased by my excuses but please, please let me assure you that I am piecing myself back together.
I’m writing again..or trying atleast…
Major charity shop treasure.
and what is life without cat pictures?
Prince, looking not so ‘petit’
So all in all dearest blog I am sorry, forgive me?
So apparently cats eat books now…thanks guys.
OH YOU. Look at you, how could I stay mad.
My lamp...and Dorian...and Patrick.
In response to comments on my previous entry I’ve decided to attempt to restore a bit of balance to my blog. Hence the lack of cat pics (yes i KNOW there’s actually two in the last pic, ones ceramic though, and you’re supposed to be looking at the lamp…jeeze).
Super serious post (about the dangers of zumba, particularly to those like myself born without the ability to laugh at themselves) coming tomorrow.
Another cat post. I’ll be honest I’m both too lazy to write a real post and also totally in love with my new phone and how I can take photos of Lord Dorian and co. like some insane cat paparazzi (catarazzi?) and IMMEDIATELY inflict it on other people.
Besides if I’ve learnt anything from my adventures in blogging it’s that people LOVE cats. And bacon. But I’m out of that.
Moar cat pics…by popular demand…
Margot Frankenkatzen & le petit Prince
Moar cats pics. It’s pretty much all I’ve done since getting Instagram. I’m not sure of its purpose if not for inflicting your feline obsession on Facebook pals.