I have been sitting here for about five minutes trying to think of a good excuse on why I haven't written in my blog or really written at all for that matter. I could say that I was busy, that I had other things to do but anyone that really knows me knows that I would just be bullshitting. I noticed that my last post was in December that is way too long for someone that makes the claim that they want to take writing more seriously. I know what the problem is I just don’t want to admit it to myself. With all things that have happened to me in the last few months I have spent more time with a pen in my hand and it not touching paper than I feel comfortable admitting.
The fact of the matter is I think too much—it stifles creativity.
For the longest time I knew that in my life I wanted to be creative. I wanted to create something from my mind and make a physical representation of it. However with that want I didn’t consider the problems that would meet me half way—or even at the start line. I want to be able to write what I want when I want it and I am unable to accept anything less than complete perfection; which is horribly unrealistic I realize that but the feeling still lingers even when I tell myself that I’m not going to get good until I suck first. I’ve been going about this whole thing the wrong way I have to tell myself that I'm aloud to write crap.
About a year back I began writing what I thought was going to be my Beethoven’s 9th. It was about a Nazi solder that was in hiding after the war. He was waiting for death to find him so he can escape the punishment that he was already dealing out to himself. I first tried writing it chronologically that went well until about page three. Then as I thought of an event I would begin writing from that moment and try to figure out how to tie it all together. Once I realized that wasn’t going to work. I tried character development. The story wouldn’t budge from my brain I didn’t realize at the time that while the plot of the story was at the very least decent. My skills as a writer were—and still are—absolute garbage. Over the last week I’ve accepted that as fact and I now feel that I am ready to crawl out from this pit I jumped headfirst into.
I'm going to allow myself to be a crappy writer because that is exactly what I am and I shouldn’t force what isn’t there. Don’t get me wrong I’m still going to push myself but now at least I know I'm not Stephen King.
