A Walking, Talking, Slightly Drunken Cliché

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!”

Walking, Talking and Slightly Drunken Cliché

Well look at that. A cliché photo of a writer’s laptop with a notebook and a cup of coffee. And it’s in black and white.

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!

Writer’s Block. Again.

I got nothing. Or maybe I do.

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