There are few things that suffer so much as to admit that you suck. When it is because of evidence, failure or something you do – like sports where the feedback is instant – it sucks to suck. Devastated, sad and angry you threw perhaps a fit and try to either do better or give up.
When you admit to your inner demons that you suck, not just at a thing, but completely, totally from the fucking tip of your toenail to the topmost hair on your head, and you say to that inner voice “You’re right” it is both a relief and such a fall into a dark abyss that few can fathom it, yet far too many know exactly what it is I refer to.
So, I have come to the conclusion that my writing sucks. I lost the geist, the fuel, the fire, the ideas and the different images in my head stopped whirling, twirling and dancing for me. It feels stale, I ask myself why?
Not the why as in, why do I see it? That’s one of the questions I loved to explore which exploded into me sitting and hammering on my keyboard late into nights.
It’s not the “why?” as in why do they do as they do, why are they here – what is their meaning, their purpose their reason to be either sad, happy or angry.
No, I ask myself “why?”, as in why do I write this nonsense? Why do I sit there, alone hammering on my keyboard imagining that I will eventually feel any sort of joy over my accomplishment. What accomplishment? I write, a lot, but I can’t edit for shit. That’s the truth, the honest truth. I’m really not good at it. I have sometimes simply parked that in the back of my head with my ordinary excuses:
I’m not writing this for anyone but myself.
I’m not well yet, I’m still sick and I can edit when I recuperate.
It’s not like I’m showing anything that I write anyway.
So, you see, I have a good set of excuses and mantras I can throw at my tantrums. Does it help? Sometimes, I guess, because after a day or two of feeling like utter shit at everything, I sit there and the clock is running past any sane hour and I do hammer at it again.
Lately I have started to want things. Want is not a good thing. I want for people to read what I write. I want to break out of my shell and tell people, here, look at this, I made this. The problem is that I can’t really handle criticism either – so you see, the problems of matter of facts are sort of not in my favor here – so I can’t do it in order to actually advance in my writing either.
So, I suck at writing. I read what I write and compare to things I like to read and I realize that I suck.
It makes me wonder why I even write this.
It makes me wonder a damn lot of things.
I simply know that I suck and I suck at finding answers except that damn “I suck” answer to most of the questions.