Week #3 -- Self Awareness Writing

Snow days are perfect.

They help me to finally do the things I dream of doing after leaving idle for months.

I also had some mental constipation and didn't do some required things... yay for me. I'm actually behind on this journal so I'm going to try and catch up. I seem to be suffering from... writer's block.

I don't know if this is just a writer's block or a multi-faceted creative block. People say a lot of stupid things about this erm, phenomenon. Writing about it is actually fairly annoying.

Here's the truth, writer's block is a lack of motivation followed by a dosage of fear. It's also this compulsion to delete everything, like the very words I'm writing now. I think the truth is that when you don't want to write something it's like going to the dentist to get a tooth filled. When you enjoy writing a certain tale, you may have a flood of ideas. And then there's the overwhelming novel that pops into your mind... and it's not that you don't know how to get started it's just... like going to the gym after a long spell, and you've gained some weight around your waist (rather, you have some waste).

I am so out of shape; maybe not, no really... I'm in excellent shape and maybe having too much time with ellipsis. I'm deceiving myself. I know what I can do and that alone is a scary recognition, especially as I uncover more of the truth in knowing my strengths, capabilities, road blocks, and incompatibilities.

I think my best writing is when I allow it to be free. I'm not trying to force words to suffice an end, but as I am thinking of a particular story my emotions react to what I write. I may laugh at the absurdities that spring forth or I may be in awe at a sudden metaphor. The worst of the worst is a block that says: write exactly into this space eleven lines of crap for this awesome and life altering prompt. Well, thank you for telling me what to do and not giving me the chance to run across the galaxy.

These boxes didn't make me perish as a writer growing up; they did as a singer. When I studied music at a younger age I didn't realize how some of the songs required for class were actually very unfitting for my voice. Once the box was removed, I was free to go, free to tell stories the way I saw fit, actually free to use the emotions I understood rather than trying to sing about love or death at the very pure, innocent age of sixteen where any concept of love at that point was a fabrication, at least on my part. And maybe I just wasn't a very good liar.

I don't want to write about anymore lessons at the moment. I just kind of want to scramble around with half-made-up words. I think for just one prompt I'm going to go free association style. I don't know how to transition into this...

Here's one way:

Sample of absurd writing (free association style) :

And go:

Language is a distortion of reality. It tries to convey what is happening and set it into a handful of characters to contain concepts. Perception is a focalizer. But words are much more fascinating when we take the leash off, take the collar off and throw them into a volcano to burn and disintegrate so that words can dance their way into whatever way they please, just like writing equations in math, all they are is the codes to a certain kind of reality whether its one we have the chance to experience or one we are making up to explore.

We can never abandon it all the way because we have to use from what we know to build something new; all new things have at least some particles of the old because how can anything that is of existence, something that is an entire new "is"? There's definitely better ways to write these butterflies out, but this isn't the time for rewriting. That will come in due time.

I want to abandon all these concepts and theories for a moment. I'm being all meta, or rather I'm laying out my plans instead of doing what I actually can with words. This is all secondary. I want something primary. I don't know why I'm failing to do this. I really don't know. It's some kind of writer's block and all writer's block centralizes around two things 1.) A lack of motivation 2.) fear. (Repeating myself, it's like a coda.)

If cats could swim through oceans with ballerina shoes, they probably would only get as far as the sand. Some old lady may ask why those cats have ballerina shoes on, but to these cats they never had anything more luxurious so why take it away from them now? The floor suffices as a bed. There's many, upon many material things that can just be tossed aside and once those extra fatty marsupials are thrown to the wayside, than the true kickboxing kangaroos can take a stand, and what more could we ask for in the Raging Bull of boxing?

I've never pictured a kangaroo playing a piano, till just now. For the Australian beast, I generally imagine something less dramatic and classical, something you would hear on the open plains like a guitar, a non-classical guitar. That seems more suitable for a Joey. I wonder if old women, who don't like cats to wear ballerina shoes, I wonder if they ever snap their fingers and think of their past when they had younger, smoother fingers that could snap the perfect pop. Now they're hands are all shaky and they can barely keep it together, isn't it sad? The littlest things we don't appreciate. Today is now the day to seize, not tomorrow because asking and requesting that you have a tomorrow is far more than any of us deserve.

Eggs can be made into so many shapes. Each with a different taste. Each with a different name, but really they're all just eggs. What difference does it make? Why be so picky about food? I imagine your digestive system will take it the same way any which way one decides.

Anything past third person becomes a gossip. Gossip is bad. Don't write in fourth or fifth person; it's unnecessary. Getting meta and secondary again...

Okay, if I were to travel through the stars I would want to float. I would want it to be perfect. I would want to move as fast as possible, and I would want to see all kinds of familiar objects drifting at all new rates, like feathers, marbles, water... Why is the universe so big?

I like to think of space like an ocean. I would never swim to the bottom of the sea, and I would never travel in space. There's so much danger, so much pressure, and I'm a chicken, and I don't know, it would be so lonely, and so far away. I would just want to go home. I would want green grass and sunshine no matter how silly that may seem. There's beauty in the everyday things, and it's all taken for granted until one day, it's not there. Cliches are attacking my brain; they like to be overlords and cease the outlier thoughts from escaping and showing any sense of enlightenment. Cliches want to be kings, but they're really servants, little streams to the bigger ponds that are full of delicious ideas.

What is texture in writing? Is it the density? The thickening of language and narrative? Language and narrative are tied together in perfect matrimony.

I think I will stop here.

THE END.