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July 29, 2006


I used to enjoy it so much, the thrill of it. Once a phrase or an image got in my head, it would rattle round and round until the need to espress it was bigger than I was, bigger than I could hold, and it would explode onto off the ends of my fingers and out, into the electronic aether. My words had wings then. As they flitted away, I was left trying to fill the void with more, better, clearer images until I finally found the right way to express myself.

Only they never were right enough. I would revisit and rewrite, reworking my words until all passion was squelched and I was left with syllables, letters, periods. A desire for perfectionism destroyed my creative writing as surely as it killed my urge to paint anything less than perfect. I read my writing now and I am embarassed. Just as I only saw the flaws in my artwork, I only see the amateurish awkwardness of my poetry, my blogging, my forever unfinished novel.

Now I sit for hours, trying to wish the images back, trying to force the phrasing, and it feels empty, passionless. I don't know what happened, how I let this happen, but I have a sneaking suspicion I lost control of this long ago.

I can't call it writer's block. I would have to be a writer to do that. I don't think it's a block, either. It's an absense of ability, a drought.

I've got nothing. And it's my own damn fault.

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This page contains a single entry by Prosemonkey published on July 29, 2006 11:07 PM.

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