Writers Block

I wrote the title for this and then stared at the computer. I thought writing about writers block would get me out of my slump. I poise my fingers to type and I get frustrated. ‘Who cares about your stupid inability to write. That’s not interesting.’ I then relax my fingers and decide to make myself hot chocolate. I get out of bed but decide I’m too comfortable and return.

I started this blog to get writing done and I barely write anything. I’ve found a home among writing my NFL picks for but even that has sucked lately. I can’t write to save my life right now. It’s frustrating. I have all these ideas but no way to get them written.

I look through my draft folder. There’s plenty of options. Most of them rewritten so many times I forget what my original ideas were. ‘I’m too self critical I’m sure there’s some good stuff somewhere in this folder.’ But after searching for a while. I think maybe I’m not too self critical, I just write crap. Oh well, I’ll waste time on Facebook or Twitter.

I feel like a louse because I need to get some writing done. I’ve got a play to work on. I even have notes for writing a book. But these ideas now seem dumb. These projects are old friends I’ve lost touch with and have no idea where to pick up with, I’d probably just have to start anew. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t just finish reading The Road. Cormac McCarthy is a genuis. I get more critical of my writing. ‘Who cares about what I write? I should just write something to get out of this slump. It wont matter how good it is.’ My head hurts and I rub my eyes searching for something in my imagination. Anything. Nothing. I just need to put pen to paper. ‘Well, everyone has to write crap every now and then right?’ I hope so.  So I start writing.