The Problem with Living Is That It Stops Me From Writing

You know how there are writers out there who say that you need to experience life so you’ll have something to write about? Yeah. I’d like to have a word with them.

See, while I do admit that I now have tons of ideas for writing right now, I also want to acknowledge one teeny tiny downside to the strategy of living my life to have writing material:

Living my life tends to prevent me from writing, especially when the life in question throws in a few trippy rocks right in front of my toes just as I try to shuffle forward.

I really suck
I really do.

I mean, sure; I can get right back up there. But it takes some time for me to recover from the adrenaline, embarrassment, anger, and guilt. More often than not, tripping over those rocks just sends me careening into a state of stasis–in which all I am willing to do with my free time is sleep (because who wants to deal with consciousness?), read books (which I really should write reviews for), watch random episodes of Battlestar Galactica (which my Dad finally forced me into watching), stalk random sites for San Diego Comic Con updates (Marvel has made me REALLY happy), and go with my family to watch Pacific Rim (because you can’t just watch it once).

I’d rather not get into the details, but let’s just say that over the last week and weekend, I found myself reacting to situations in ways I wish I didn’t. I also had to be the Bitch Queen of Households even though I really REALLY didn’t want to be (but it had to be done, and I was the only one willing). That in itself wasn’t so bad, except that I kind of got grief for it; it clearly did NOT help my mood. I’d try to pick up a pen or pull out my laptop, and then the sheer sense of self-pity and drama overwhelms me to the point of inactivity. I just end up sniffing one of my pens instead–DON’T JUDGE ME! IT SMELLS LIKE CHERRIES!–or just playing either Facebook games or Scribblenauts Unlimited. Even if I DO get something down on paper, I find myself hating it; tainted as it is by my admittedly maudlin mood about myself as a human being.

That said, I can’t say that happiness is conducive to my writing either. The last time I was ridiculously happy living my life, I ended up semi-abandoning this blog and any other projects I had on my plate. I was too busy with actually living my life. I didn’t want to stop doing that just so I can write a few lines about it. It’s the same reason why I never really got into the habit of taking photographs of anything–the price of preserving the memories is a few precious minutes that I could have spent experiencing them instead of finding just the right angle to frame it with. And I’m willing to bet that the photo itself will always be inaccurate, and will thus fail to preserve the memory anyway. That’s probably just me (I can’t take pictures for shit), but I really have trouble living my life and preserving the experience of it as it happens. And, as it sadly turns out, my life seems to have its highs and lows in quick but sustained succession, leaving me paralyzed in the feel of it all. It almost feels like I’ve hit another symphonic movement, and its frenetic pace makes it difficult for me to take note of every note. I only find myself waiting for the music to slow down so I can think, and write and remember (however inaccurately).

I need to stop living every once in a while. If only so I could write.

But for now…

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