It’s morning, again.
Autumn in Colorado. It’s been raining for a week, the sky seeming to have permanently chosen a murky battleship gray as it’s skin. Wet, chilly, and sorta depressing. If I’m being honest, I’ve sorta loved it. It suits me very well, seems to bring out the words in me. I’ve needed quite a bit of help there, lately.
Beginning about 10 years ago, I’ve had the worst writer’s block I think there has ever, ever been. I used to write pages and pages and pages, every day. Then, when I was 19, I got strung out on meth. My curiosity and general sense of over-confidence outweighed my better judgment, not for the first or last time. For a while my writing increased, and I’m sorry to say that at first, it also improved. I got the fuck out of my own way, wrote some poetry that I would never have guessed I had in me. I ALSO wrote some of the most depressing nonsense anyone will ever read. Not to mention the reams of absolute gibberish that came out of me during the fairly frequent times when I was destroying my mind with sleep deprivation. For better or worse, all of those writings were stolen from me at a Greyhound stop in St. Louis in the late summer of 2006.
Sometime around the early spring of 2007, I managed to quit meth. In the end, it was weirdly easy; I don’t remember any sort of withdrawals at all. I think the worst part of it was being bored and broke and having to ditch all my friends in order to stay clean. Most of those “friends” aren’t people I miss at this point, either. Once the haze had properly cleared, I realized that the words were… gone. My mind went blank any time I tried to write. Moments of inspiration became brief and incredibly infrequent. My use of marijuana increased dramatically during that time, and I don’t think that helped, as the few good ideas I did have from time to time became really difficult to hold in my head.
And I’ve been more or less there, staring at the empty pages in my brain, for years now. My frustration is finally overpowering my anxiety, and I’ve decided on an action to take. Through the use of brute force, I am going to force the words out of myself. Each day, no matter what else is going on, I have the goal of writing 500 words. What form that writing takes, and whether or not anyone ever reads it, are details that I’m choosing for the moment not to worry too much about. The idea is to build habit, to become familiar with the feeling of creating again, to get comfortable in my own head again. Like a morning jogger that ignores the weather report and just hits the trail each morning, rain or shine, I’m gonna write 500 words a day, whether I feel like it or not.
So, here goes nothing…