Inhibitions correction.
Comes productivity high, comes the downfall of the tumble.
Not for anyone’s sake and certainly not my own.
I finished my second niche award-winning film evoking of emptiness and humdrum. I suppose I needed a reflection to my obsession of the cracked image of the mundane. I guess that’s my reason.
I notice in the mundane, the roller coaster effect in which the ups and down are enhanced. Every time I’m up, I sit down and have a plate of pancakes to remind me where I come from. Flat. Flat on my face. Flat on my ass. Stuck between the “The Writer’s Tumble” or the “The Poet’s Hangover.” My own references that soothe me in mysterious mystical ways; ratifying their usage so I do not gaze at the itch. Do not scratch the itch. Focus.
In this moment, I’m embracing the usage of the Draft. The rough Draft, so to speak. It always seems to be a doozy. Better than stubbing my toe on some Block. Just hate when that happens.
That little daze in and out and realization. Pain, whether your stubbed toe actually really hurts or not. Maybe the most intense agony in your life; then you keep walking. Whatever.
My mind has been stuck on this sense of productivity. I’m “studying” in which the ways of most writers do. Absorb like a sponge until I regurgitate it to you later in another promising poem of some sort. This is the goal, at least I’m working with. Maybe even, it’s good! That’s enough promise for me, today.
I’ve noticed my writing changes up a bit based on whatever form I’m choosing to scribble my silly little thoughts. Silly little thoughts that express this silly little part of me that just wants to sit and share with you. So of course I speak in my silly little ways with inside jokes, references, allusions, along with the zest of swearing for a little razzle dazzle. I enjoy the variety. Pen and paper usually cohorts into some charmingly sensual prose, keys turn into musings, and I’ve taken the habit of spitting out a quick haiku on my phone when insomnia is nagging at me and the thoughts spin like laundry day. The poems are more like little rain showers that pass through my head like sing-songy little tunes of limericks I endear my cats and dog with. I think they think they’re funny. I think they’re funny, so that’s all that matters.
I was kicking myself earlier. I wrote a completely angry and harsh rendition of this “same” Musing; and wow did I go nuclear. I went so red hot my mind was spinning for hours. Stressed out and angry with no real reason. Fed up? I think as I go forward with this writer thing, my obsession with success follows me. I often don’t deem myself successful until I start to hear it from others. Always working hard, always shifting. Pushing myself even when I’ve got no give. I’ve taken some solace in the fact that I am producing pieces at a rate I’m happy with. Though the quality, I’m giving it all. In my most humble honesty ingrained into myself, I’ve come to realize not every piece is going to be a masterpiece. Not every piece is going to be my favorite. I think my favorites are just where I can’t stop the overthinking train and the words in my head swirling around in their own silly little cyclone, never ever produce what happens when the words spill onto page. It always changes. My vision never follows the edition. It’s never the same. Sometimes better. Perhaps, it’s a confidence thing on the ones I feel forlorn to share. Especially the short stuff. Is there worth in it?
Let me tell you.
A lot of people can recite a quote, but not many can recite a book.
I suppose that’s my motto until I gather the bravado to do that too one day, and maybe I rather hear the book over the poem.
Maybe I’ll listen long enough, every word will be etched into my brain, and I’ll recite every word on every page for you.
Maybe then, I’ll appreciate the book.
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