Alright, so what now? What do I write now that I’m already tapped out for this morning? I was considering crapping on about music, but I feel an urge to churn out more words about nothing, knowing that it’s a great risk to my mental state at the moment. I was thinking about doing the healthier option and instead I chose filth. I chose pain.

But I’m choosing it as an easy option, or rather a familiar option, because doing this is what I currently know. I’m trying to let go, but that’s hard, but I am trying. I am hoping. I don’t know what the fuck is going on at the moment and everything is in turmoil, but I’m still alive and I’m still trying to survive so… there’s always a chance for things to improve.

For now, however, it’s spinning the wheels trying to find the ground whilst the car incessantly flips without actually hitting anything. A car crash in slow motion, though the crash has passed and the car is still moving. Need it to land on its wheels, need everyone to be okay, and need to make sure that I come out of it and keep on going once the damage has been assessed. Need to improve and all that.

Well, that was pretty dramatic.

I think that writing is probably the best thing I’m best at, as evidenced by this sentence alone. But really, I am a stronger writer than I am drawer, musician and photographer, and perhaps it is why I don’t have an issue with dropping photography. Writing does not make me feel alive in the same way that music does, but I am better at it. I am better at putting words together in a way that makes sense than I am at creating sound and combining it in a way that makes sense. Sometimes that’s just the way things go, really. But I do love music, and I don’t know if I could ever let it go. There’s too much if it to explore out there, and it’s all rich and fertile land, and there’s so many ideas that I have that I desire to work on and create, and do all of those things. You know how it is.

I also know how it is.

So with that said, why do I write the way I write? How is it that I’ve come to a space where how I write is the way I write, and I feel that this is the most acceptable way of writing? Actually, now that I think about it I know. It’s in part due to the process of picking the pen back up after the previous ex dumped me. It came through from there, and I eventually decided that rambling was the way to go.

I look at the stuff that I write that I edit, and that’s always much better. That has more to say with less words (*sometimes) and gets things across that aren’t just “Yeah I’ve said this before and I’m saying it again”. That’s something that I can be happy about, I guess. Or rather, I can be content with, even if I’m not satisfied with the work that I produce after a few days of sharing it.

I think about writing a lot, and I think about processes. I think about how the wheels are spinning and the car is off the ground, and I’m wondering if I’ll actually be able to find any success one day. I don’t know, and I’m worried. Maybe I should drop writing. Maybe I should just drop everything that I love and find something else. Success shouldn’t be the pursuit, but it’d be nice to have. It’d be nice to not have to worry about where money is coming from, but them’s the breaks and perhaps I’ll be pumping them one day. I don’t know.

Maybe I should just publish a book. Write the greatest crap thing that has ever been written. Wonder how far that would get me. Probably not very far. But maybe. The main issue is, whilst it would be sincere, it probably would come off as cynical and then beyond that, I’d be aiming to intentionally write crap. The best crap comes form a place of legitimate desire to create something honest; with heart, and even if it’s being enjoyed  despite the intent, I can respect that because someone tried. Maybe a team tried, and they failed, but they made something genuine. They made something with heart, and that goes a long way.

So sometimes I enjoy bad works, but I don’t enjoy them when they feel cynical. I don’t enjoy them when they feel designed to be bad. Of course some of those kinds of works can be pretty good; sometimes they have heart, but it’s not the same as having a group of people who tried to make something good and failed, due to whatever reasons. I have respect for works that tried and failed, though of course that also depends on the intent of the work. Some intend to be hateful, and that’s not my cup of tea, to be honest.

So I’m not sure if I could make an intentionally bad work that was enjoyable, but I also know that I’m not certain I could make a good work. Certainly could try, however. What’s the worst that happens? I don’t succeed.

Really though, it’d be nice to have some success with my writing, and that doesn’t happen, but I still love writing. I love the process, even when it’s frustrating and I love getting words together in an order that says something about something. I also love the meaningless and perhaps I revel in it far too much, but there’s not always telling with these sorts of things.

Well, I’ve a few more words to consume. Thought I’d have ended it already, but I was wrong.

So… yeah. That’s today’s writing on trying to create.

The time it took to write one thousand words: 12:55:95

Decent speed. Sort of meandered a bit, went here and there. It’s a bit of a compressed journey this one, I think.

Written at work.