I have it. Actually, I’ve had it for over a week. I have so many different forms of creative output I could pursue, too! Allow me my moment of whining drivel here: I could write, but I’ve decided that I hate my story and everything that happens in it and that everything I write is dumb. I could draw, but I haven’t drawn in years and staring down a blank sketchbook page is actually kind of terrifying. I could practice the piano, but I haven’t practiced in months and I’d have to start with boring scales to get back into it, then I’m just going to give up halfway through relearning one of my old pieces. I could post on my blog, but what of value could I possibly have to contribute to the internet, which is already saturated with too much of everything? I mean, I’m seriously planning on turning my Instagram feed into a wheaten terriergram feed (I couldn’t think of anything more clever than that, I’m sorry, but at least now you’ve been warned that you shouldn’t come here expecting any cleverness from me), for god’s sake, man.
There. Now that I’ve gotten that out of my system, we can all move on with our lives. Although, I think the paragraph above only serves to prove my point that I have nothing worthwhile, interesting, and/or original to say here. I’m sure you’re all jumping at the bit to subscribe to my RSS feed after that enlightening experience.
I know what I have to do. I have to bite the bullet and just keep swimming. Or, in this case, just keep writing. Because damn it, I’m 45,811 words in and there’s no going back now!(!) And then I need to take some time out to draw some really awful drawings, because they’re guaranteed to be awful and that’s just a fact, then I need to celebrate in their awfulness. And then I need to sit down in my chair and write blog posts like this, because that’s who I am and what I feel like writing about, and lord knows the internet could do without another post re: “6 best writing habits” or “10 little known tricks to increase your web presence” or “25 ways to make your blog more interesting” (since—who am I kidding?—I don’t have it in me to pretend to be interesting, therefore I hardly qualify as the premier authority to speak on the matter).
So on this foggy Monday—as I drive my poor dog insane by listening to nothing but Mumford & Sons on repeat for the nth day in a row (a fitting revenge, I suppose, since I walked her all over the neighborhood this morning and she refused to do her business and she actually psyched me out, yes, really, she squatted like, oh hey, I’m totally going to do my business now, then she was like PSYCH! just practicing)—I move forward!