“Here it comes, my masterpiece, my Sistine Chapel, my Old Man And The Sea.
Aaand it’s gone.”
-Me, sitting at my laptop writing, every day.
Writing is difficult. If I could encapsulate writing I would say that it’s the equivalent of stepping up to the plate and either hitting a 600 foot home run or taking the most embarrassing swing only to find you didn’t come anywhere near the ball.
Some days I sit down and it seems like words I didn’t know I had just keep flowing out of my fingertips, and other days it feels like my brain can’t properly communicate with my hands to tell them what the hell to write.
It’s annoying. The other day I slapped myself in the face about five times in an effort to snap myself out of whatever spell I was in. True story.
Whenever I tell people I’m a writer they look at me as if I just explained the inner-workings of string theory to them. I write stuff. I write words. I try to find the proper way to say things in a way that’s fun for other people to read. That’s it.
Want to know what my day is like? I sit at my desk, hit my stride for about an hour, then I go and eat something. Then I watch a video, then I eat some more stuff, and then I stare blankly at the white page waiting for inspiration to come for two hours. Then I watch another video. Read more