Forgive me for being so boring…
I fear I have become boring. I fear I write about the same old shit. My son is a cancer survivor, I have gray hair, I am a model, I question everything, I am trying to figure out if things happen for a reason, I run, I cycle, I love to write, I joined Team in Training again, and the newest thing that I am going to bombard you with is that I have a lead role in a short film. Big fucking deal about any of it.
I’m actually sick of myself. I feel like I need a break from me. I am not special. Every single person on this planet has their own “special” shit going on. I am no different from anyone. We wake up, we shit, we go to work, we eat, we drink, we laugh, we cry, we love, we have sex with ourselves, or with someone else if we are lucky, and then we go to bed.
I have been in a slump. I have a friend who keeps challenging me to write fiction. I keep saying I am incapable of pulling a story out of my ass. I can’t make stuff up. He says I need to get away from myself. I say, how can I, I am myself. When I wake up, I am there. He told me to write of something in my life that happened to me and my brother, but to write it as if I were my brother, from his point of view, and all I can manage is him writing about his sister, which is me. Again. Me. Go away, me.
Seriously, the last thing I want to be is self-indulgent, but I fear that is just what I have become. Ick. Yuck. But isn’t writing at it’s very nature self-indulgent? Yes, it is. Ray Bradbury says, “You must stay drunk on writing so reality doesn’t destroy you.” Oh hell, that doesn’t help me, because I write about my own life. My reality. Hemingway said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” That’s more like it. The exposure of it. I think I would feel less exposed if I were a stripper. Even the fiction writer feels exposed. Apparently there is always a little bit of truth in fiction. I wouldn’t know. And a final quote from Stephen King, “Fiction is the truth inside the lie.” I don’t even know what that means.
I will close by telling you that my friends, Ron and Debi, came over and we shared a bottle and a half of wine, so I’m a bit tipsy. I think I should become a true artist and only write drunk. Goodnight.