Writer with Excuses


A brief rant on writing.


Running out of ideas. Time to gather new ideas seems short, slippery. When visualizing time I’m looking at the wrong things, seeing it in reference to life instead of the moment. But how useful is a long life spent working and collecting money, never having enjoyed life before death?
Priorities need to be better aligned. To consume as much as is made. As it is, I have more output than input and the tank is headed towards empty. As all the juice is squeezed out of the same withering thoughts, they become abstract and raw. Emotionless information. They’re dissected beyond purpose. They’re just parts. A car brought down to its basic components.
With organization it should be possible to compensate. I have to get over myself. Too much, “I’m too good for this,” or “I’m too busy for that,” going on. If there is time to waste there is time to spend. I need to bring the courage to settle my mind and make drastic changes without dreading the adaption process. The period of change where one feels lost. I should be chasing that feeling as if it were the guiding force. That feel of unfamiliarity is important to inspire and it’s the muse I’ve been missing.
I get too comfortable in my ways and methods. Although they work, there should be new material as often as there is new method and craft developed.
Sometimes a story needs to be told. I need to paint a picture. What good is having shiny freshly sharpened tools if they never get put to use? Hanging out in the tool shed polishing and sharpening, but never using? All this talk of purpose and meaning, yet, here I am avoiding change that’ll supply stories with purpose and meaning to share filtered through my lenses.
I need to get my shit together and be the goddamn writer I pretend to be.