Every day is war

In the figurative sense, obviously

Sometimes – okay, let’s be real, most of the time – I need a proverbial kick in the plums to remind me that it’s not okay to settle for mediocrity. Yeah, the ol’ noggin has ideas, and these fingers are capable of getting them down in a hundred different ways. But hammering the keyboard like a drunken monkey is only half the battle.

There’s the other side, the tedious side, that I struggle with: editing. in my caffeinated stupor, I don’t slow down enough to make sure that each of my totally sick sentences is free of errors.

Editing is part and parcel to writing. And I have to start living like every single day is a battle for flawless prose. Because right now I’m sitting on the fence – unwilling to stop at the straightforward line but uncaring about whether a mistake makes it into the hundred or so directions in which I take that line. Even one error is too many.

It’s time to hop off the fence, accept that I can’t be both a bomb-ass writer and lazy proofreader and move toward my destiny, bros. Because, shockingly, there are people out there who see potential in me, and I can’t let them, or myself, down.

An autobiography

Because it’s my blog, and I’ll talk about myself if I want to.

I like to think I cultivate an air of aggressive unlikability, which may or may not be the way I deal with being an introvert.

I wake up at 4:30AM most days – not because I have to, but for the thrill of running on an empty sidewalk. Continue reading

Night vegetation

I literally watched a dude eat a 5 lb. of Haribo sugar-free gummy bears . I’m not sure what that says about the productivity level of my evening, except, you know, that I thought watching a dude eat food known to cause “anal leakage” was a good use of my time.

But I laughed until I cried. Then I watched another one of his videos. So I have that going for me. Such is the vicious cycle of working, picking up my oldest daughter from school, coming home, cooking dinner and putting the kids to bed. When all is said and done, there’s no gas left in the tank for creative things – nor is the passion there. Continue reading

Art has a safe space

bubble

But it may as well be called “creative purgatory.”

As much as it pains me to admit it, there are words that “trigger” me. I don’t mean that in the PTSD way, but in the Tumblr “oh my God, did you assume where I stand on the whole Chris and Anna thing” sort of way. Those words are “safe space,” when used in conjunction with “writing.”

You could substitute any creative effort in place of writing, and my reaction would still be, “No. Jesus, no.” Continue reading