I’m waiting for my country to implode. Maybe that event has taken place, and it hasn’t reached my Twitter feed yet. Bwhahaha. Ha.
If I laugh at everything, nothing can be that bad, yes?
I’m writing in fits and starts. I write a bit, read over it, despair at the utter savage awfulness of my words, start over. That’s my 2022 writing pattern so far.
I’m getting conflicting advice from every direction on what being a writer is.
Write every day. Don’t worry about when you’re not writing, after all, blah dee blah. Force yourself to write. Take time off from writing, take up a hobby. Thrust yourself into every writerly space or else no one will take you seriously. Relax, you got this!
Fuck me running, you writer advice-givers. Be militant robots spewing words no matter what or be slack underachievers telling yourself you got this over and over as your coffee cools in your slogan-covered mug.
Make up your collective fucking minds already. Which is it?? Force yourself to write every day, like a machine or because you need product to sling. Or take it easy, breathe, just be, just let your fingers dribble those thoughts onto the page and hey, everything will be okay, you got this.
I can feel the depression creeping in. Maybe that’s a giant chonky block in my writer’s journey. I just made myself vomit a bit, BRB.
Writer’s journey??? What would that even be? I wrote some crap during my lifetime. Some people thought it was good crap. Most thought it forgettable fart breezes oozing from unmentionable orifices. I died alone, very poor and utterly forgotten. The end.
Until twenty years after my death! Someone Important suddenly decided my writing was the bee’s knees. Sales of my obscure stuff become world-wide classics that….Grrrrr. Grrrrr!!!
If that happens to me, I am returning from wherever and I am bringing Jesus with me to start that whole End Times fun.
What month is this? February? Hearts and groundhogs.
I am tired. I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want to do anything at all. Motivation is zilch, zero, DOA, MIA, KIA, all the letters that spell dead in the water already. I’m trying to revamp short stories to improve their chances. I think I’m making them worse. Ever been there? You try to ‘fix’ your artistic project and holy bells of hell, it becomes a nasty mess of edits, compromises galore and sheer hesitation over trying to write nicely instead of honestly. Or maybe I’ve run out of words.
Oh dear.
Babbling away. I tried to make pancakes this morning and the pan just drove me bugshit insane. Would not cook them. They stuck, no matter how much oil or spray I used. I nearly just threw that so-called non-stick pan away.
So I baked the rest of the batter in the oven in a cast iron skillet. Yes, I was cursing the entire time. I threw in some apples, cinnamon, nutmeg and allspice, called it an oven pancake surprise.
I can’t write and I can’t cook right now. Go kill yourself with a chainsaw, 2022. I’m off to nap until there’s a new year, a new motivated brand sparkling new me and a brave new world that doesn’t want fascism to be their new lord and savior. For fuck’s sake already, earth. Have you learned nothing at all?
ANN WUEHLER 