i haven’t written or read much of anything in a month or so which is sad but sometimes that happens, and when it happens it takes me awhile to clear the shitty writing out of my system, you know? not just a few paragraphs or lines of this or that, it takes a lot of just throwing shit away and throwing shit away and throwing more shit away until damnit okay i’m happy with this again
but am I ever happy with my writing? I mean, I guess not, but then again a lot of writers aren’t and some say being happy with what you write is a sign of stagnation like water in a pond over time that has green sludge skimming over the top of it so nasty the frogs won’t sleep there…and I don’t want that, so in a way i guess it’s kind of good that i’m never happy, that I want more from it, to keep pushing it…
and damn does reading even make that harder because i’ll read books and rub hands on my head and call out MOTHERFUCKERS and rip the pages and eat them and cook them up and throw them at random strangers because
this book does shit i don’t think i’ll ever be able to do and comparing myself to that makes me want to just take my own words and wipe my ass with them because
i’m just not happy with what i write. But hey, it’s always the worst like this when i start up again, right? Right. Right! whatever. either way, i need to just keep pushing away at things and have the chutzpah to think hey this is worth the crazy shit and the weird dreams of giants and a million ghost cats coming out of my mouth that i get and yeah i’ll never be as good as XYZ or ZYX or PPP or whatever random letters that make this into an algebraic equation and therefore more literary and more real and more geeky and more whatever whatever whatever
but anyway, either way, i’ll never be that THAT because that was not me and fuck it i won’t ever be that.