How to be a cliche

I hate not writing. I hate writing. When it’s work. When it’s a slog. When it’s one word after another and the next word doesn’t come. When I cannot make myself sit the fuck down and try again. Type out one more dumbfuck word and form another dumbfuck sentence in this stupid fucking book. Everyone asks how it’s going. They know better. But they ask anyway. I forgive them if they’re a writer because they know and they’ve been there and they want to help and know they can’t. I forgive the non writers too. Because they don’t know any better. They think they’re helping. They think it’s something you might want to talk about. Doesn’t help that we’ll just keep on fucking talking. Answering their questions about why like we have any idea at all.

I know there are some smug motherfuckers who can just sit down and write. They go out to their little writing sheds their wives bought them or whatever the fuck and they just write. They make sure you know it. That they type every day. They package their smugness in advice like “Write every day.” (Speaking of…Go fuck yourself, Stephen King. You’re making us all look bad.)

The rest of us… Fucking hell. It’s why I love being a writer. I had a few writers in my house a couple weeks ago or a week ago. Doesn’t matter. They asked how the book’s coming and I laughed and said stupid shit so I wouldn’t cry. They laughed and said hilarious shit about the times they’ve been stuck and how much it sucks to make sure my eyes stayed dry. (I love y’all. I really do.)

I fucked off and beat my head against a wall for who knows how long before my deadline and six months since. I have tried every goddamn thing a writer can try, except coke. And honestly only because of the fentanyl thing and that it doesn’t work unless it does. And if it did, it would’ve worked without it too.

Weeks and months of scrolling while some show I’ve already watched five times but not in a couple years played in the background. Writing a few days and thinking I’d be okay but waking up and it’s gone. Drive somewhere or walk Woody or talk to someone or watch a thing. Come home and swear I’ll write this time, but I know I’m lying. Fuck this. Fuck me. Fuck it all. It’s gone. Can’t write. Will never write again. Maybe I was a one hit wonder. Maybe I’ll be a cautionary tale.

Jesus christ. Don’t think about it too much. Just watch another dumb show and scroll. Take Woody somewhere. Read something. Not that. Something else.

Goddamn cliche. I suddenly don’t mind writing and I woke up and it happened again. No fucking reason at all. Maybe I’d whined enough or fucked off enough or tried enough wrong ways and stupid ideas. Hacked away until enough of it’s there. Fuck me. The next day and the day after that, I just fucking sat down until I got that part down and woke up and did it again. Like this is what I do and I remember how to do it. I’m in season 4 of Mad Men somehow and it’s been a week and so I did it again. Why not write another few thousand. Take a break to give Woody a bath. Write some more. People keep talking to me but I can’t hear them and it’s funny because I don’t really care.

I got far enough that it’s just math, and the easy kind. A few thousand words a day and half of them I wrote already, I can see the end of it. I’ll probably get stuck tomorrow. Whatever. I love being a writer. It’s fun as shit. Don’t text me. Don’t even make eye contact.

Here’s a picture of Woody, who’s not happy about the bath. He doesn’t know we’re doing his nails on the next break. Okay bye.

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