Today’s date is a palindrome. 7102017. You ever get that sick feeling in the pit of your stomach for no reason? It’s difficult to describe, but I’ve tried to write about it before a few times.
I haven’t had much to write about this weekend between midnight runs for food as I was housesitting and couldn’t forage much. Plenty of interesting things happen outside when it’s dark out. Like Applebees being open until 1am? The fuck?
Man, writing has really slowed down recently. I’m really forcing myself to get this journal out to get something flowing. I guess now’s a good as any to go through my processes of writing. How I’ve done it.
Used to be, I’d lay in bed late at night and just write. I’d be able to type things onto my notes app on my iPhone. I did that for such a long time, before even knowing there could be form to any of it. On my old iPhone 4 exists the first draft and timestamp for Virgo Olympus. Pretty crazy to think all that stuff is electronic.
And then I have three filled paper notebooks, done over the course of a year, and brimming with ideas I still haven’t touched. I should look through one of those someday.
It’s so much easier to write when there is something less interesting going on around me. Fuck, what a blanket statement that is. I can write so well in classes at college. Open up my notebook and just fuckin’ go at it. May was such an insane month for me in writing terms. I have something like over 60 poems written in May of this year. This month? Maybe 5 so far. For the record, we’re only 10 days into July. I have plenty written. Not a lot ready for anything.
I can crack open my notebook and get going on something. See, my notebooks fill, but the amount of product that comes from it? Who’s to say. The notebook I had to start in June to replace my moleskine is already halfway full. It’s beautiful flipping through all the pages, but there needs to be some sort of distance placed between the ink drying and revisiting the ideas. Otherwise there’s not much to go on.
Maybe I haven’t mentioned this before, but the longest time I’ve ever gone between starting and finishing a poem has been 6 months or so. That was an idea I came back to that I started on my phone and came across when scrolling through my notes.
The fire I have for writing is being reserved for just banking those ideas. Keep banking banking banking, yeah!
This journal’s excerpt is from “Autumnreach”:
“I have a deathwish…
Nay, I have six!
For the evergreen trees
Better off an abyss”
In which I describe how much better the summer looks through autumn sunglasses. Particularly the ones I wear, because, you know, I write a lot of poetry about what I think!
Is this writer’s block? If it is, it’s shitty. Last time I had it I tried some tactics to beat it. They didn’t work.
There’s no spigot for creativity.
It either happens or it doesn’t, and there is no cure all method for making it happen. Even inspiration can be less inspiring sometimes, then when you might like it to. As such, I don’t often write very happy things. I brood a lot, because it’s mostly what concerns me.
Happiness isn’t easy to attain, but when I get there I find that what I want to write about is all that bad shit. Which might be a flaw in me, but hey, I can admit fault.
Like I say, you’re not a [blank] if you don’t [thing corresponding to blank].
Be inspired, damn you!