Tag Archives: Imagination

Creative Confidence

I entered this world as an introvert. As I got older, comedy became my way of communicating with other people. Whenever I allowed my brain to develop a completely independent thought that wasn’t “comedy”-related, and shared that thought with others, I often found that they thought I was crazy. I started to believe this as well. And this kept me from sharing serious thoughts with others. Comedy has always been easier for me than writing something “serious”.

I have not yet determined if they were right, or if I was, and am, right. I can tell that this uncertainty hinders me creatively. But I’m not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing. If I completely express myself, completely and honestly, am I actually an insane person? Am I a danger to others? Are my honest thoughts dangerous to others? To many, that’s a weird question to ask. But to me, it’s normal. I’m learning the importance of independence. And I’m learning how I can improve as a writer. But I still have my doubts. I begin to write something, and feel as if I’ve already written it before. Then, those children of my past come back, and ask “Why do you repeat yourself so often?” And then, there’s doubts. I start to “look up” why I repeat myself so often. Ope, looks like it’s OCD. So then, I obsess over my “self-diagnosed” OCD, until I finally just say “I can’t do this anymore.” Even if I do only repeat myself with everything I write, if that’s what I feel like I should write, then that’s what I’m going to write. If I’m truly a mental patient, then as long as I feel honest with myself, I’ll have to accept that I’m more “disordered” than the general population.

I’m tired of adopting ideas about myself that come directly from others. This is partly why I have developed my “vulgar” stage: as a way to rebel from being told how I should think. What do I think? What do I honestly think and believe? It is crucial to the soul for one to develop his own thoughts and convictions. Something is always missing if one doesn’t.

It is fun to take what people believe about me and exaggerate it. I really enjoy that. I really enjoy “scaring” ignorant people. It’s dangerous, because there are some people out there crazier than I who wouldn’t hesitate to end my life. But if freedom of expression is so important, why should death be enough to scare one into silence?

I don’t want to be told how I should bring my creative visions to life. I don’t want to be afraid of being “crazy” and “repetitive”. I’ve always believed that I know what I’m talking about. If you disagree, say so. You have every right to say nasty things about me, or whatever you want. I’m not going to stop you. In fact, I encourage it. I may delete a comment, but start your own blog. I have learned that good people will always get their names smeared by bad people, so I welcome that. I welcome the miscreants to destroy my name. I fucking love it. Bring it on.

I always envision an assassination attempt against me, much like Larry Flynt. “Why don’t you just keep your mouth shut? Is it really worth it?”, you may ask. I believe so. I have always been willing to stand up for what I believe to be right. I’ve never had a gun pointed at me, or anything severe, but I’ve been attacked (when I was a kid) for standing up for justice. Been stabbed with a pencil, and had my face slammed into a desk, because I took back a seat that was stolen from me. I realize that’s a minor example. But it proves the principle. Even though I’m not perfect, and I’ve done some bad things, I think I can safely say that justice motivates me.

I have very deep convictions regarding comedy and writing. I have big goals. I will not stop pursuing them. It’s a very slow process, as I have said. But practice will make me better. I’ll develop my voice with practice and experience. I will be able to handle justified and unjustified criticism as I get older. It’s going to be a while before those voices of doubt go away. It’s exhausting to read and try to get better. Entering into the literature world is a huge endeavor. But I want to write, and I want to see where it takes me. I want to learn from my mistakes as a writer. I don’t want to let criticism silence or censor me. And all of this is going to be very hard to do. The thing that gives me hope is the fact that writers write over a very long period of time, so I know I’ll get better at this as I go along. I’ll just have to feel like I’m spinning my wheels until I finally, somehow, get out of the mud.

I’m not able to completely make up my mind yet, and that bugs me. I want all of my writing philosophies to be fully developed now, but they aren’t, and can’t be. There will be growing pains. That’s a part of it. But I look forward to seeing where it all ultimately goes. For whatever reason, I am confident in my abilities to write. I didn’t say I was good yet, but I’m confident that I can do some good things over time. It’s just a matter of learning how to do it, and that is hard; especially, if you’re as thin-skinned as I am. Even that callousness takes practice, and I’m impatient. But I look forward to seeing where it all goes, and I’m looking forward to how I’m going to feel about it all. I generally feel confident until I get negative feedback, but I think that’s just natural for a lot of people. I may be an engine without oil, but I’ll learn to lubricate eventually. I truly believe that I am the little engine that could, and now, it’s just a matter of proving it over a period of time. That, of course, is the hard part.

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“Solitude”

There’s never enough alone time
Even when by the self, there are voices
There are voices needed for stimulation
They talk vain words
A momentary distraction
From the work that lies ahead

They foster the imagination
Rev up the dreams
Inspire
Motivate
Stimulate

The crash comes in waves
The hopes, and the dreams
There’s never enough alone time

When left alone, one can think bad things
Make mistakes
Unchangeable actions

When one is left alone, the faults magnify
The doubts, multiply

But the people do not satisfy
Their voices ring, echo in the head
There’s no escape from the madness

The boredom seeks them out
And they satiate

But there’s a longing for solitude
Being left alone
With the dreams and the demons

The ringing in the ear grows louder
The self-doubt, past mistakes
They haunt and taunt
They eat alive,
Drive mad

It creates a longing
A longing for success
A longing to make up for past mistakes
Is the proper equipment had?
What is the difference between today and yesteryear?

The faults talk
And torment
You are all alone
No one else can hear the faults

The sword and shield come from within
The drive, the dreams
You’re all alone
Amongst the moat, and the echos

Cursed to an existence
Of communication conflict
So little satisfaction derided from the words of others

The mind, it wanders
Through the millennia
Of today

There are no coping mechanisms
There is no help
It is just you, and your sword and shield

There is no perfection
There is injustice

The war is, ultimately, fought alone
Things must be fixed
Changes must be made
Growth must be experienced

The voices aren’t as deafening
Now, they make more sense
God damn them, they make more sense……

The desire to be alone
And the desire to express
Grow

The fears still remain
There are reminders
No matter how much you run
They are here

But so are the dreams

One can be driven mad
When one is alone
Perhaps one desires to be mad……

I think I do

The voices are quieter
When alone

The self-doubts evaporate
Until the time comes

But you are left
Alone
And afraid

You finally have
The peace and quiet
To work

And battle your demons

The sea of your mind is unexplored,
Hardened by myths of old, grizzled sailors

The stories, though untrue, still instill fear

The time is now
To set sail
And forget the past

The time is now
To get lost in your mind
In complete silence and isolation

“I Am” poem.

Sitting in Silence.

“What do I see?” poem.

“Conquering the Demons” poem.

“The Hypodermic Needle”

A walk, to clear the mind
And the stomach

Flooded with emotions

Of the past,
Both dark, and bright

A reminder, of the good,
And the dark

Upon reflecting the good,
A hypodermic needle, on the ground

A somber reminder
Of the times

Of the memories,
And the sympathy

And the guilt

But still, trudging on
Full gullet, full heart

A mind full of memories,
And a much welcomed perspective

Old, and new
Combined into new

The darkness, now light
The light, still there

Trash, once treasures
Imagination, now reality

A thankfulness, and lamentation
Of days gone by…

But an imagination renewed;
A productive imagination

Bigger than ever

If I could write like this every fucking day, I’d be set. But turning my brain off (somewhat) for extended periods of time is the only thing that keeps me sane. I haven’t learned to keep up with it yet, nor learn how to use it.

I’m on the stoop of literature. Once that front door opens, there’s no going back. Navigation will become a non-stop way of life, with only a vague destination in mind. Wandering the halls forever, of imagination, both internal and external. There’s no going back. There’s no escaping the escapism, once you enter. You’re trapped. You are admitted into the mental institution of fiction. You will talk to yourself, and talk to the voices in your head. And they will talk to you. Readers will call it “fiction”, but the horror is all too real. You have lost your mind. You are creating worlds and problems, only adding to your level of stress. You truly HAVE lost your mind. “Come on in,” the writers say, cheerfully, if only to keep a happy face in front of the interviewing camera to keep the world spinning. “The world of literature is WIDE and wonderful.” I’ll be damned if it is. I’m fucking talking to myself in a piece of quasi-fiction, and I know that this is only the beginning. If I continue to go down this road, I will never be the same again. The road less traveled is less traveled for a reason, and I think it may be a good one. A life of talking to myself? What madness! All for what? A good story? A happy heart? Is it truly worth the insanity? Is it worth the isolation? Is it worth the poverty? The headache? Physical sickness?

Why oh why must I be this goddamned writer! Why must it feel so natural to me, and yet so GODDAMNED elusive? Why is it on, and then off again? Hot and cold. Luke warm. It flirts with me, I tell you. “You can do it, Cody.” “I think you’re lying to me.” “Nah. Go ahead.” “Well, ok. Holy fuck, you’ve left me to drown in my own sea of ideas with no life raft.” “Here.” “No, I don’t want your goddamned ideas.”

Clearly for the better, you’re left inside your own head with a jarbled mess of incoherence, and, inevitably, resentment. Occasionally, God throws you a life raft of “common sense.” But when you think it will rain daily, there’s a drought. The gap is filled with unsatisfying nonsensicals. But goddamned if you’re going into insane land. By God, what have you got if not your sanity? WHAT GOOD DOES IT DO TO WRITE WELL IF YOU’VE LOST YOUR GODDAMNED MIND IN THE PROCESS, BY GOD!!!

What is it that you fear? Clearly, it cries out for you. What is the problem? A heart of stone? Too much thinking? What is it that keeps you saneWhat will rid you of it? WHAT WILL COMMIT YOU TO THE LIFE OF THE WRITER?!?!?! Why do you fear that life so? Is it the ridicule? The possibility of failure? Opportunities foregone? The fear of making a mistake? What prevents you from writing? From reading? Life-changing commitments are always difficult decisions. I suppose the fact that they are difficult just means that you value your life. But then again, why can’t it be easy? Oh, how satisfying success would be, though. An independent decision leading to good things? My, how fulfilling of a life. What is wrong with that? Are you afraid you’ll change your mind later? Are you afraid you’ll invest time and effort into something you later regret? And then what? What will you fall back on? Is the more important question: what could you possibly care about more? Could it ever be more fulfilling than this? Once again, why, oh why, do you fear so? Clearly, it is the ball and chain you were cursed to carry in this life. We’ve all got our burdens to bear…

The seductive mistress taunts you with her golden jewelry. My, oh my, how beautiful that jewelry is. So elusive. So comforting. We all must live before we die, musn’t we? Is it a mirage? Or is it actually waiting for you, as you, truly, deep down, believe? Will you die from dehydration in the desert? Or live as a king? What is it that makes you believe the latter? And what is it that makes you ignore the former, if not for the latter, and also the love of the craft itself? Truly, there is nothing else. No other reason. It is your IDENTITY. It is YOU.

But the mistress is not within your grasp. She’s just out of reach. Or, perhaps, further back than that. But is your perspective the problem? Do you not see happiness as an ultimate ethical virtue? What is wrong with being a little maniacal if it helps?

Back to reality. The desperation. The dreaming; the difficult independence; the uncertainty; the roller-coaster; the self-loathing, self-doubt, and self-confidence. Fighting through the brush towards the enemy, only because you are crazy. This war is widely unavoidable. But is it? For others, maybe. But for YOU? Can you truly avoid this war? Why does it burn within you so? Why does it fuel your hunger for belonging in this world? Why does it consume you, night and day, when others are at peace? Are they at peace? Or are they in the back while you are on the front lines? Are they looking for someone to lead the charge, if only because they are desperate to fight, but feel unable to? Are you the leader they need? Or are you the local schizophrenic rambling about fictitious wars and delusions of grandeur? Will you ever know which one FOR SURE?! AND WHEN, FOR GOD’S SAKE?!

…It yearns; lingers; burns. In the cave, it burns. Once the oil is added, it burns uncontrollably, and no one wants to deal with an ignited madman.

Isn’t that what you want, though? To be left alone? More than anything else, don’t you just wish to be left……ALONE?……

You aren’t truly alone. Many men have wandered the very sands, the very cement, that you desire to tread upon. They have looked for the same treasures, with success and failure. They have gotten lost in the cave, and they have never returned.

And maybe they aren’t saying it’s a good thing simply for the camera…………

Stoop kid is afraid to leave his stoop, but, with small steps, he will embark upon the sand, the cement, the halls, and deep down, he hopes there’s no way out. He hopes he becomes lost in this world. He hopes it becomes all he has, if only to feel like he has something that he actually wants…………

Getting Sucked Into the World of Writing.

Getting Sucked Into the World of Writing

It’s time for me to take writing more seriously. I hate writing, because of the headache it gives me. How to begin a piece, elaborate on it, make it coherent, make the language better, more efficient, easier to read, and end it on a witty, snazzy note. The mere sight of a word processor makes me want to close it out. But yet, I still write. In some ways, I feel like my nature opposes writing. And truly, it does. I think a large part of this is my desire to be carefree, and relax (I can probably thank my father’s genes for that desire (it ain’t a bad desire to have, I might add)).

I can’t do that if I’m going to write.

I think this is why I have been avoiding this dreaded day for so long. I have started to become tired of my writing for various reasons, and I don’t think I’ve known how to fix the problems that I have with it. Perhaps (cringe), it is that I need to study literature more. Read more. I can hear my best friend when I hear my own internal voice. I really do need to read more to know what the fuck I’m doing when I decide to write. As much as I want to vomit at the thought of becoming an “avid reader” (because patience is not one of my strong suits, nor is feeling like I’m not productive (I don’t feel productive when I read fiction, although, for example, I am being productive when I read if reading helps me become a better writer)), reading is a great way to become a better writer. If I read people who are better writers than me (as if), I will become a better writer (impossible: I’m already the best). I know that, as a writer, there comes a point when I become tired of my writing. Or, rather, that there comes a point in time when I need to do something about the fact that I’m tired of my writing, as I’ve been sick of my writing for quite some time.

The problem is that there were (and probably still are) things I needed to say before I could get to the current point that I am now. Even though this sounds crazy to me, I feel like all of my writing is related in some way. Indeed, it may be as simple as this fact that I have overlooked until now: that it all comes from me.

But I have not been ready to commit to writing. Although it makes me cringe to write this, perhaps it was because I had nothing to say. There’s clearly a combination of factors that have prevented me from “getting sucked into the world of writing.” I feel like I have written about these a million times before. Part of the problem is that I’ve been focused too much on marketing instead of writing; caring more about the views than the pieces themselves. Now, that isn’t entirely true, because I don’t write simply for the numbers. But the numbers discourage me from writing.

I’m a typical victim of words just not coming out right from my head. Communication is a huge problem for me. I don’t care to practice it very often, for I’m content with being by myself (or I “talk to myself” in the form of creating things for my own enjoyment). From a creative standpoint, I only talk “to” other people as a seller. “These are the jokes I have”, “The insights I believe I have”, etc. I don’t particularly care for “back-and-forth”, getting to know readers and other writers, etc. And I personally think that because I don’t enjoy communicating, I’m not as good at it as I desire to be. Writing is the best way for me to practice getting better at communication. Why would I desire to communicate if I hate it, you may ask? I may have written this before, but writing is a desire that overwhelms me at times. Even the introvert has things to say after he stews on things a bit longer than most. But I don’t write as often as I feel like I want to deep down. And I believe that it is a fear of commitment to “getting sucked into the world of writing” (that was a joke. You see, the quotation marks exist because that’s the title of this piece- ok you got it).

Writing fiction makes me want to vomit. The initial process is the fun part: the “first draft” (I’m not quite sure how to label my writing, so I’ll go along with common vernacular that I’ve heard (or read) authors use). I’m very eager to share my works, even if my works aren’t very good (lol). Probably because I’m eager to get that “million dollar deal” that isn’t on the table. Probably a good deal to do with it. But I need that motivation to keep me going.

I suppose that I’m merely developing as a writer (something that I truly didn’t think was possible, oh, 4 ½ years ago now). My best friend, a fellow writer, always talked (and still does) about improving as a writer. When I heard that, I thought “How can I improve? I know I’m not the best, but I’m good enough.” (Good enough for what? My own standards, I suppose). But after 4 ½ years, the state of my writing (particularly fiction), as I said, makes me want to vomit. It’s a tangled web to unweave; a commitment that I haven’t been sure that I want to make or not. It’s not that I don’t love to write. I really, really do. But there’s aspects of writing that I don’t like. I like the initial idea that I come up with for a particular piece. And then, I write that idea down. And that’s typically where it ends. Very little editing (if any, because I haven’t wanted to “get sucked in the world of writing”). No revisions. Just “Hey, I like this thought. Write it down.” And done.

I’m not satisfied with that anymore. Currently, I think the biggest reason for this dissatisfaction is my boredom. I’ve got things to do, but I’m becoming bored of doing them. And I always start writing again when I’m at my most bored. When I enjoy doing something, I don’t want to do it so much that I lose my love for it. That is what I have always feared about writing: that if I do it more often, I’m not going to enjoy it as much when I do it. Is there too much of a good thing, in this case? I haven’t dared test it, just in case. For what would I replace this with? What could I do that would replace writing? It’s not that I don’t enjoy doing other things; but writing is very important to me. It has its own purpose. I don’t think I’ll ever truly understand why I write. And that bugs me. I enjoy being introspective. But am I really willing to spend the time and effort to figure out why I enjoy writing? ‘Tis a very daunting task. Perhaps it is just better to enjoy it and not question it. It remains to be seen for me. (Why Do I Write How I Write?)

I love non-fiction, and the possibilities for fiction are marvelous. But it’s the fiction that bugs me, because fiction is a lot harder to write for me. Perhaps it is because literally anything can happen. And the thought of selecting things, and organizing things into a good story irks me. I have countless notes in a word document that say “Write a story about __________ where ___________”. And then, I’ll open up the blank word document to start it, and that’s when it hits me. “Holy shit. This is a big commitment. This is a sanity commitment. A creative, insanity commitment. A commitment to language; developing it, organizing it, thinking about it (and thinking about it…and thinking about it……and thinking about it………………..). It’s terrifying to me, because I know that I will, much like my best friend (much love), become insane. I can see the insanity in my best friend. I worry for the poor boy. A man lost in countless fantastical worlds, that cause his hair to prematurely turn gray because of the stress from not getting everything read and written. I’ve desperately tried to avoid that fate for myself, but I’m afraid that the fates are drawing me ever closer to that dark hole of “literature”, and I beg for God to have mercy on my soul. But, then again, perhaps I’ll feel most alive right before my literary-induced spiritual death.

I truly do have to thank my best friend. His love for language, I know, will help me with my own writing problems. Clearly, he’s already influenced me, much like countless authors have influenced him. I’m beginning to understand his words more now: literature truly is a lifetime commitment. And I’m always terrified of committing to something for fear of missing out on something else. I think a big part of that is how I was raised. My mother always told me that I could do whatever I set my mind to, and my father encouraged me to “use my brain and not my brawn.” So my mind wandered, and I envisioned all the possible careers I could take. Most of them didn’t interest me (regardless of how unrealistic the prospects actually were). But I’ve tried to keep my mind open to the possibilities, which has, up to this point, resulted in me not committing to any one particular thing.

And the world of writing does terrify me. The patience required to read, the things that you are sacrificing while you read due to time constraints. It terrifies me to think of committing myself to writing more because of whatever else I may be missing out on. Now that I think of it, what is it that I’m really missing out on? Sleep? Laziness? Truly, those may be the biggest things; coming up with anything else is probably just an excuse. But writing terrifies me. You’ve got people critiquing your works, asking for clarification (and you better be able to provide it), and, in my opinion, the two worst things that can happen: a reader getting bored of your writing, or a reader never knowing of your works at all.

Maybe another reason that I haven’t “gotten sucked into the world of writing” up to this point in my life is that my brain just doesn’t think good. I’ve written a little bit about reading here (this has a lot to do with it). But maybe I don’t have a brain well-equipped for reading. It’s not that I’ve always hated reading. But I think for me, the problem now is that I know that my future hangs in the balance at this very moment, and I need to do everything within my power to be successful; and reading feels like an unproductive waste of time, if only because I’m not creating anything when I read (even if reading would help out future creations). And, once again, I’m lazy, so there’s that.

My brain craves excitement. I’m constantly looking for new things. And I get tired of reading the same thing for an extended period of time (including a piece that I’m working on while I edit, like this one, currently). I guess I’m naturally a different type of reader than “avid” readers or “real” readers. It seems as if many “readers” stick with one thing at a time until they finish it or until they can’t take it anymore due to it being “bad”. My threshold is much lower. Once again, it is because I am afraid of getting lost in fantastical worlds. I’m afraid of the commitment. Because I know that my life will forever change, and change scares me (lol). I am afraid of transforming into a “reader”. The life of a reader is a different world. I am afraid of the improvement I’m sure it would offer me. Why? Well, I’m sure that (depending on what I read), reading will make me smarter, and will make me “sound smarter”. And, ironically, I have found that the smarter you sound, the harder it is for people to understand you. Now, clearly, I realize this is unfair on my part (or, at least, I hope so). My life experience is very limited, and I’m basing this mainly on my childhood, where I was schooled with kids of all sorts of demeanor, intelligence, etc. My confidence was affected by my peers in school (and, at times, my family). Once again, I’ve always dumbed myself down, and, therefore, have not had much practice in “sounding smart”. Acting like an idiot has made people more friendly towards me, and that explains why I love stupid humor, and acting like an idiot so much. I’ve been working my whole life to come out of my expressionless shell. I’m happy with the progress I’ve made, but I can’t accurately describe a measurement which would tell you how much further I have to go. Language truly is a full-time commitment. Scary.

Perhaps this is “bad” of me, but I don’t really care what you, the reader, think of my writing. Obviously, I care from a monetary standpoint. And, of course, I respect it when someone compliments my work. I’ll even read the criticisms, and determine whether or not I think they are valid (I think it’s about 50/50). It has been my experience that many people do not know what they are talking about: people that I have taken advice from in the past. I know this is “normal”. I know that “everyone goes through this”. But I don’t understand why you (I’m being presumptuous now, but with good reason (past experience)) feel compelled to tell me this fact simply because I’m stating that I’m one of the many people that are experiencing this. Why trivialize the experience of one by saying that many or all go through it? I think it’s a symptom of trying to be helpful, but not being very smart at being able to actually do it (I think that’s kind of a common, tragic theme that I’m learning (but slowly accepting) about humanity). Let’s just put it this way: it has been my past experience (many, many times) that when I spoke, the listener did not understand what I was saying. Perhaps they hadn’t considered it, and couldn’t relate. Of course, I could have elaborated on what I was saying. But when I did, I was just called a “smarty pants”, and then, they basically stopped listening. So honestly, that explains a lot of this. I stopped speaking because people weren’t willing to listen.

That’s pretty fucking depressing…

Welcome to my dark world. Lol

All I wanted was for someone to understand what I was saying without having to elaborate on it. In other words, someone to relate to. Sadly, those people were few and far between. I felt like they were more of a student than someone who could empathize with me. And that bugged me for many, many years. A large reason why I lost my voice.

From my childhood to my late teens, I felt crazy and self-conscious. I repressed my expressive desire, including what it was that I wanted to express. People either weren’t interested or didn’t understand what it was that I was trying to express (once again, it could’ve been my fault, but I was looking for a friend, not a student, as I said). Also, a lot of it was other kids just not liking my personality (still true to this day. Kids still hate me). I grew a desire to express myself comedically because when I was the clown, other kids laughed at me. They gave me attention. I acted like an idiot to amuse other people for social acceptance.

…That’s kind of fucked up and counter-intuitive, isn’t it?

However, the comedy grew not only as a way to try to fit in, but I truly believe it would’ve came out regardless of whether I was accepted or rejected by my youthful peers. Sarcasm; exhibitionist idiocy; humorous, creative associations between multiple things: I think all of these “funny” things (and other “funny” things) would’ve came out of me regardless.

Also, strangely enough, there is a sympathetic guilt on my part. My heart has always went out to those that I have felt were less fortunate than me. Currently, I think of those with language skills less developed than my own. Now, I’m not saying I’m a literary genius. But despite how meager my word skills may be, I pity those who are even less effective than I am at communicating. Like I said, I’ve always felt sympathetic for those that I feel are less fortunate than I, and I feel very fortunate to be able to communicate like I can. There’s tons of room for improvement, but I think I have a little “knack” for writing, and I pity those that don’t share that same knack. This pity has often made me feel guilty, which has contributed to my “not writing very good” situation. Dumbing myself down not only to be more sociable, but to be more “humble”. Independent gifts from God have always bugged me: probably due towards religious conditioning to “always be thankful”, directly contrasted (although immediately followed) by a message of fiery fear.

People don’t like it when you talk good. My desire to be readable contrasts with my intrinsic desire to be exact, thorough, and pertinent (I suppose that I am implying that you, the reader, are dumber than I. At least I offer a formal apology right now). I suppose time and practice will determine the balance between “readable” and “exactness” at any given time (perhaps an acceptance of a “readable = exactness” equation), but I’m really hoping I develop the confidence to be smarter in my writing. Once again, language truly is a full-time commitment. Still scary.

You, the readers, are a hindrance to me. I know that’s a bit harsh. But you, as people, by definition, contrast with my introverted nature (lol). My desire to be left alone, even though I want to write, and even though I want readers. This is probably a struggle that all creative introverts face. I know that when I write, you are free to comment, and tell me what you think. It’s not that I don’t respect criticism; it’s that I wish to be left alone. It’s not that I, as an introvert, do not desire communication. It’s that I just desire less communication than “normal”. Even the introvert has a voice. I’d like to think that I think a little bit before I speak, but I can recollect too many instances where this isn’t the case to shatter my own view of my humility.

The fact that I can’t figure out why I want to write hinders me from writing. Because I want to write about why I want to write. My brain can’t let things go, and I have to build upon previous thoughts to move on to something else. I truly believe that things that I write are connected, but I need the beginning blocks to get there. And that’s just another step towards getting sucked into the world of writing…

(Thank God I found my best friend when I did. He may have single-handedly saved my writing. If not for his persistence in the face of his own self-perceived limitations, I may not be writing this today, and may not have written some of the things in the future that I will write in the future).

All of these things keep me from writing. And, truly, I’m probably not ready to “jump right in” at the moment. As I said, I think I have a way of starting from the beginning from a personal analysis perspective, write about that, and then move on to the next phase of my own personal development. Because when I think of it, I truly don’t think that anything I’ve written up to this point is a waste of time. They all have a purpose, even if they are kind of shit. But boredom and restlessness create works, and make them better. A part of me wishes I was motivated to create without the boredom and restlessness driving me, but in another sense, I am content with my own personal reasons for writing when I write.

I will have to consult with my best friend about how to move forward, because he is the one that spends all his time doing this (within my small circle of people). I’m sure that reading will be a part of it; developing patience and the willpower to get lost in a book. Once again, I always fear what I’m missing out on, regardless of what I’m actually engaged in. I’m growing tired of this, however, and I need something that I can commit to. Sadly, I have a feeling this is going to include reading, writing, acting, filming, and comedy, and just thinking about how much work will be involved makes me want to, once again, close the word processor and go back to watching Youtube videos. But there’s also the side of me growing restless.

My best friend and I have talked about this before several times: eventually, you just become bored with what you’re doing. Everyone does. All creative people go through phases. They do something, then they change it up. This is my first small, slow step towards changing it up.

I can’t keep writing the same things over and over and over (or, at least, I want to work on not doing that).

Also, something that I consider that may (or may not) surprise you: what if I’m actually an idiot? I don’t think so, but past experience makes me doubt myself. And what of the writers that I think are intelligent, but are widely ignored or dismissed? How will I handle the thought of me writing things that are intelligent, but also widely ignored and dismissed? I suppose the simple answer is “practice makes perfect”, and I don’t know how I’ll react if I become as reviled and ignored as someone such as, say, Murray Rothbard (for you simpletons, I’m not comparing my writing to Rothbard, but am merely asking the question: what if I become as obscure and disrespected as he is? How would I handle that? That feels like the worst-case scenario for me as a writer, which is why I brought the example up).

Word choice, editing, and confidence will (obviously) be a big part of “getting sucked into the world of writing”. But the next big step is to figure out how to do it without becoming overwhelmed (and, thus, disinterested) in it all……

I think the key, for me, will be small steps.

I want more confidence in myself, and to be less concerned with what others have to say about my works. Contentment and bringing my creative visions to life (and a lot of money) are what I desire. I know that I will become more confident the more I practice. Now, it’s just finding the desire to treat this as a full-time endeavor (God forbid?). Once again, I have uncertainty regarding writing. How much do I want to do it? And when? Maybe that means I’m not a “real” writer. Maybe I’m just a poser. But I’m a poser with things to say, so I’d consider myself a writer, even if only part-time.

All I know is that I want to do it. I couldn’t say how, nor what, nor how much, exactly. Time will determine all of those answers.

Thank you for reading the thoughts of a bumbling idiot. I may or may not resume bumbling idiocy after intermittent messages similar or dissimilar to the ones you’ve just read here.

(There’s the witty, snazzy note I was praying that I’d end on, thank God. Oh yeah, and this one is as well. And this one).

A Philosopher’s Mind.

Highly Sensitive Mind.

*Insert a creative metaphor for a writer’s insanity*

I find it interesting, analyzing myself as a writer, that I don’t care about grammar that much, although I’d like to increase my vocabulary (and develop more coherence); but I don’t like talking to people.

It’s a weird, contradictory life as a writer, where you don’t want to talk to people, but you want to write and have them read it.

But you don’t write FOR them. You write for YOU.

It’s like talking to yourself out loud, but wanting people to listen to you speak to yourself, and then saying “Hey, listen to what I’m saying to myself. I want you to like it, but I also don’t care if you don’t.”

You have to be insane as a writer…

My fear of going insane due to getting lost in my imagination… : Why my best friend is probably Buzz Lightyears away of me as far as writing is concerned…

I Really Don’t CARE If Other People Don’t Like My Work.

My work.

Some notes about writing.

Devin Stevens.

Excerpts from my fiction.

My poetry.

Articles.

Where you can financially support me if you so desire (T-shirts included; please share all of these links).

My fear of going insane due to getting lost in my imagination… : Why my best friend is probably Buzz Lightyears away of me as far as writing is concerned…

Practice is the only way to get better at something.

So I must get lost in my writing

(He’s pretty much been telling me that he’s been wanting to do this himself for the past couple of years. I never really understood it until now…)

I’m also beginning to understand how I can become a better writer (something he’s been telling me about himself for the same amount of time), and I’m also beginning to understand what he means when he talks about going insane because of his imagination.

I can see why, if I continue to write, and want to improve as a writer (as I do, because I’m getting bored with the same old dreg that I’ve been trying to sell to people), then I’m going to have to share that same insane, imaginary, mental world that he has been talking about, although no doubt our two worlds will be quite different from one another’s…

Devin Stevens.

Insightful.

My work.