Picture this, if you will:
A writer is sitting at their desk brooding and stewing, perhaps a bit frustrated. A glass of wine or other alcoholic beverage at their side. Books littered around and on the desk, papers strewn everywhere. Cigarette butts overflowing in a nearby ashtray.
Said writer bangs away on their keyboard for a few minutes, takes a drag off their cigarette, utters a few curse words and then proceeds to sit and stare at the screen, the cursor blinking in such a way that the writer feels taunted.
That’s me. Minus the cigarette and for once having a mostly clean desk. Books, yes. Empty wine glass, yes. Papers, shockingly no. Definitely brooding and stewing. Definitely frustrated. And yes, I am banging away at my keyboard but I am also taunted by the cursor on my screen. The one that blinks and says, “Come on, dumbass, get to work!”
Except, working doesn’t happen. Writing doesn’t happen. My inner editor, the jackass I fight with more often than I do with my spouse, sits in my head being a constant asshole. I want to write. He wants to edit and mock me for my attempts. Or is that the drunken hamster? Either way, both of them are jerks.
At times, I am a walking and talking cliché of a writer. Dark, brooding, occasionally mysterious and sometimes (or often) drunk. Other times, I am anything but a cliché. Laughing, giggling and being a complete goofball. Borderline health conscious to the point of being obnoxious. Until I order a pizza loaded with pepperoni and sausage that is. Then I’m in “Who gives a shit?” mode.
As I write this I realize I am also the writer who is a chickenshit. Instead of allowing myself to write freely as I usually do, I’m worried that those who read this will think I am out of my fucking mind. Or maybe, just maybe, someone out there can and does relate. I’m crossing my fingers. Wait, isn’t being a bit of a chickenshit also cliché? Damn it.
I know I shouldn’t care what anyone thinks. And, for the most part, I don’t. But I’m strangely paranoid by nature and frequently worried what others will think of the random ramblings I write on occasion.
*takes a deep breath* Fuck it. I’m publishing this. Right now. Obviously. *drops mic* I’m out!