About fifty three seconds before writing this post, I was sitting in a chair staring at a blank computer screen with a sour look on my face.
That idea is truth, but it’s vague. Why was I staring at the computer screen with a sour look on my face? Why was the computer screen blank. Why was I sitting in a chair fifty three seconds before I wrote this post?
I’m a writer. Words ARE my life. Words are physical, words are mental. Life is physical, life is mental.
Twenty Seconds before writing this post I asked myself, why am I doing this? Back to the vague. Doing what?
It’s a question that’s asked by every writer. “Why do I keep writing shit?”
Writing purgatory, it’s the hell no writer wants to be in, but are in at one point or another. Lack of motivation, stress outside writing, bullshit excuses not to write, food time, oh look there’s a dog now let me go pet it so I can ignore the blank page I’ve been staring at for two hours. It’s not writing block, no it’s something different.
It’s raw, it feeds the vile monster living within us, it prevents us from doing the one thing that has brought us to write in the first place. It’s happiness.
You can’t just write to write. Writing is happiness. We wouldn’t put hundreds of words on paper to just calmly say “oh that was fun I guess”. No to write is say the things we are unable to show the world. We are able to be real. We don’t have to hide behind a costume or conform. To write is to face the things we are most of afraid of. To write is to find joy.
Writing IS chasing happiness. It is the purest and most eloquent form there is.