It's that love people put into the things they create. Some people put their love into cooking, some into art, fashion, music...you catch my drift. For me it's writing. I don't always love doing it but I always try to put love into it in the hopes that one day someone else might feel the love too.
I feel pretty vulnerable admitting that. It's something I feel about writing that is personal to me but I guess right now I'm putting it out there. That's because I'm feeling pretty raw at the moment and I guess I'm hoping that expressing that might make me feel, well, a little better.
I'm half way through my rewrites. I've been having some amazing writing days, when I feel like nothing can touch me. And I've run into those days where I'm sure I've crashed, crisped and crumbled. I bet you can guess which one of those days yesterday was....
There's no reason for it really but it's a physical feeling. Something's not right. I felt like that the day before yesterday too, and the day before that and a bit of last week. And all of the bad feelings came from this one thought: Why can't I go any faster?
I'm my own worst enemy when it comes to pressure. I put more on myself than anyone else ever possibly could and it's been that way since the day I was conceived. Lately, I get so frustrated when I have to stop and think about what I need to write next and the answer doesn't just appear before me, like a fully cooked meal out of The Replicator on Star Trek. This is ridiculous, I think. There shouldn't be anything left to figure out with this draft. The pieces are there.
Oh but they're not all there. Bodies are floating around in my mind without heads and heads rolling without bodies. And maybe none of that would be so bad if I didn't feel like being so hard on myself.
So this is me today. My parade is rained on. And the fact that after using this Streisand cliche I can only think of ending this post with another from Annie means it's time for me to go.
I live in LA now after all. So I guess the sun is bloody well coming out.