I’m having a really hard time these past few weeks, and it seems disingenuous not to write about it. Even though talking about it feels too personal. And being depressed in general seems maudlin, like the kind of thing you tell people to make yourself seem more complicated, even though in actuality, it just fucking makes you like every other whining little brat who grew learning how to articulate their feelings in therapy.
I don’t know if I can actually write about this. Wouldn’t it be funny if I posted a stock photograph along with this post of a girl with her head in her hands, like this is a fucking about.com article, and just said, in a caption, “This is how I feel?” Not really. Instead, I’m going to post this 100% random image from an Alexander Kluge film.
I just don’t feel like I can write. I don’t feel like I deserve it. I don’t understand how things that I’ve written in the past came out of me. I don’t know where they came from. I am reading other people’s writing, and comparing myself to them is making me sick.
I’m alone all day, waiting most of the time for something to happen. I don’t know how to get any new stories. Pitching is a monumental task that no one ever taught me how to do. I’m afraid if I don’t keep on working hard, my career will disappear within a matter of weeks, and I’ll have to start all over again, at the beginning.
I feel an enormous amount of pressure, and have no one to talk to besides friends who are in similar positions. Maybe all writers are always in this position. Knowing that might make me feel better, because then, at least, I’d be able to let myself sleep in once in a while.
On a side note, I slept fitfully, again, and dreamed, in vignettes. The final dream was about me playing handball in an Olympic match against a Chinese team. I kept fucking up the game, because I walked on the court without any training. Then, I reached into my bag for my iPhone, so I could take a photograph. Through the screen, I saw that the court was surrounded by an enormous stadium full of hundreds of thousands of people. Fucking telling, right? Who gives a shit.
Last month, I wrote eight reviews for print magazines, and one feature. I also re-wrote 50,000 words of a novel, along with numerous online posts. I get these bursts of energy, and then they just go fucking missing. How they fuck did I get up, and do that? And where did those fucking ideas come from?
I’m trying to write down ideas right now, but I’m so tired, I can’t articulate them. I don’t understand why anyone reads this fucking blog, because it’s garbage.
Anyway, I should probably take it easy today, but I won’t. I’ll sit here, and make myself sick all day. Tonight, I’ll babysit. I never know how to end things, so I’ll just say, “Money is good.”
