I disappeared. It is especially disheartening considering my last post... In the last seven days, I have written thousands of words. I've journaled almost daily and I've put 5600 words into a Word document that may only be seen by me. But it's a start. It's something. I'm desperately holding on to the scant bit of momentum that I have and constantly reminding myself that this shit takes fucking work and there's no easy way around it. No one is going to suddenly appear at my door and give me a magical remote control that will stop time so I can write.
I fight the lazy girl that lives inside of me on a daily basis and when I can convince her to go away, the perfectionist rears her ugly head, saying, "I mean, you can try and all, but if it's not going to be perfect, then why bother?" The lazy girl hears that and shows up with cocktails and 45 episodes of my favorite television show on Netflix.
And, back to the couch I go instead of writing and giving myself the chance. So, this hastily written, mostly pointless post is my way of giving the middle finger to those bitches.
When I saved the 5600+ words into a file, I started digging around to see what else I could find in my archives of secret words. I found the following poem that I wrote in February of 2015 while mourning the loss of someone I've never met. I'm not a poet, but every once in awhile, poetry comes out of me and onto the page. I didn't edit this--only chopped a few lines that messed with the flow.
Find her and you find it all
Blues, Fridays, and bourbon highballs
Start it and you’ll find it all
Play out and she’ll come to you
It’s all coming into view
In the moonlight
Warmth and light
Touch it, Girl
Don’t be scared, Girl
Put your fingers on my heart, Girl
Strum, Boy
Find it, Boy
My heart lies behind
Them strings
Those stings
Tight and low
I can follow
Those fingers tell a tale
Using, abusing,
Strumming, and flipping
Finding their way
Got to getting
I fight the lazy girl that lives inside of me on a daily basis and when I can convince her to go away, the perfectionist rears her ugly head, saying, "I mean, you can try and all, but if it's not going to be perfect, then why bother?" The lazy girl hears that and shows up with cocktails and 45 episodes of my favorite television show on Netflix.
And, back to the couch I go instead of writing and giving myself the chance. So, this hastily written, mostly pointless post is my way of giving the middle finger to those bitches.
When I saved the 5600+ words into a file, I started digging around to see what else I could find in my archives of secret words. I found the following poem that I wrote in February of 2015 while mourning the loss of someone I've never met. I'm not a poet, but every once in awhile, poetry comes out of me and onto the page. I didn't edit this--only chopped a few lines that messed with the flow.
Find her and you find it all
Blues, Fridays, and bourbon highballs
Start it and you’ll find it all
Play out and she’ll come to you
It’s all coming into view
In the moonlight
Warmth and light
Touch it, Girl
Don’t be scared, Girl
Put your fingers on my heart, Girl
Strum, Boy
Find it, Boy
My heart lies behind
Them strings
Those stings
Tight and low
I can follow
Those fingers tell a tale
Using, abusing,
Strumming, and flipping
Finding their way
Got to getting
