I’ve been writing a lot lately, which was (sort of) the whole point of starting a blog.

I needed a place to vent, to find myself and my purpose. I don’ know that I have found either, yet, but I feel like I’m on a pretty good track.

My writing technique has suffered from neglect. I’m not quite happy with what comes out, because it isn’t coming out how it sounds in my head. But I can feel the rusty joints moving and am confident that some things will come back to me.
At this moment, though, I still feel like what I have been writing is coming out as a bit contrived, juvenile, and predictable. I think that’s probably normal, and I have to push through it.

A lot of the things I write are a bit depressing – death, losing love, depression – because those are the things that push me to write. They are things I know, or think I know, and the words fall fairly easily onto the keyboard. Not everything I write is from experience, though, but I can create scenarios in my head that make sense, if only in that over-romanticized Hollywood manner.

I enjoy writing (or, typing, in most cases), because it gets a lot of images out of my brain that I can’t stand to have stuck in there anymore. Some things are traumatic, gruesome, and just plain sad, and I don’t want them filling up the space anymore. Most ideas get started, but never finished. Or I start them, leave them, and come back later when I feel like I can clean it up.
Some things will NEVER be published to the internet, because they aren’t for you, but need to get thrown out of my skull before I stab someone in the throat with a rusty spoon.

I dream.
A lot.

Most nights, I don’t remember more than little snippets. And those are usually pretty basic, weird, dreamy things that mean nothing to me.
Other nights, I feel like I am being told a story. It’s not really a precognition thing (though, I do experience deja vu often), but it’s more like… I don’t even know what it is; it’s not always clear.

And some nights, like the one I had two days ago, are awful.
I sleep, but it isn’t a good sleep.
I dream, but the dreams are terrible.

That night, it was like the horror-version of Groundhog Day.
I died, many times, only to wake up and do it again.

I was stabbed, beaten, shot, drowned, suffocated, attacked by a shark (which actually ended in drowning, since the shark didn’t kill me quick enough). I was buried alive, hit by a train, blown up by a vest-bomb, and poisoned. There were probably more in there, but I lost some of them in the ether of my memory. It’s for the best, really.

The whole next day, I felt uneasy and sick.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that something big was going to happen.
As of right now, nothing is going on, and I am okay with that.

Anyway… the writing.
I know the shorts I write aren’t that good.
Honestly, I don’t really care.

I take that back.
I care a little. There are a select few people in my life whose opinions mean so much to me, that I would be mortified if they read my b.s.
I’m not going to tell them that they can’t read it; and if they wanted to comment on it, I would take the criticism. But I would also be really, really disappointed in myself. But I am aware that I am not that good at this.

It isn’t about content.
it’s about getting the monsters out of my head.

Advertisements